


More Than You Could Dream

by AlterEgon



Category: 1492: Conquest of Paradise
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate History, M/M, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 15:43:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlterEgon/pseuds/AlterEgon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christopher Columbus. Adrián de Moxica. Two men, so different and yet so alike.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ACROSS

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bakcheia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bakcheia/gifts).



> Dear Bakcheia,  
> I really hope you like this treat, even though it grew a bit beyond the usual in length.  
> We all know that _Conquest of Paradise_ takes some liberties with history. I am taking those, and some liberties with the movie, especially towards the end, moving some events apart and others closer together make the story work.

  
  
Illustration by Rebekah

Why, just why did Moxica have to sign up for this voyage?

The man was an explorer, for Christ's sake. He had led expeditions of his own before. What kind of demon had ridden him to make him think it was a good idea to set sail under the command of another man?

He wasn't a man who submitted to another easily. Especially not one who was a foreigner, a commoner and an innovator - not necessarily in that order. It was clear that Moxica saw no reason to submit to his command, other than the fact that the Queen had said that he was in charge.

For the moment, that was enough.

Columbus was quite clear on that this was not going to last. He would have to find ways to deal with this man sooner or later. They had already had a heated argument about loading the ships, Moxica opting for more room being allotted to the nobles and their entourage and horses, while Columbus insisted on using the available space to load the ships with as many supplies as they could carry.

He wished he could have thrown that horse off of the ship before they set sail. That beast got better food and care than most of the men. Columbus could appreciate a fine mount, but Moxica was treating his stallion like he was at least a dear old friend. Most people coddled their children less than Moxica did his black.

But, with his high-born origins, a reputation as a successful explorer and his natural – or deliberate – air of command, he got people to do what he wanted.

Having Moxica firmly on his side, supporting his decisions, would have given Columbus just the extra weight he needed. He still was just a foreigner to most.

Unfortunately, that was unlikely to ever happen.

Moxica submitted to him nominally, by the barest of margins, dragging out his reaction to everything he said until he was teetering just this side of threatening what authority he had over the men.

There was no doubt in Columbus' mind that if the man ever openly defied him, many of the soldiers would pick Moxica's side over his.

At the same time it seemed that Moxica was waiting for him to make a mistake, give him an opening to seize more power than he already had. So far it had not happened.

The ship was far too small for the two of them. Many days he wavered between wishing Moxica was riding one of the other ships and being grateful that he was not. Here, right under his nose, at least he could see what that man was up to. Who knew what kind of situation he would have had to face once they arrived if Moxica had weeks upon weeks to establish his command over even one ship's worth of the men.

Right now, Moxica was standing on deck, a tall, slender statue looking out over the railing as if he could see something other than the endless sea out there. He seemed rooted in place, merged with the ship, unmoving above the waist as his legs balanced out the gentle rolling of the ship.

A breeze played with his long black hair, pulling loose strands on either side of his face this way and that, picking up locks glossy as fine-spun silk and lifting them off his shoulders, moving through the long ponytail that hung down his back most of the times he came on deck. Moxica may have been still as stone, but that hair of his never was.

No man, Columbus mused, should be blessed with hair like that. Many a woman would have turned green with envy just looking at it.

God, it made him want to dig his hands into it, feel those silken tresses slide through his fingers, bury his face in them and smell them, revel in the salty notes that certainly clung to them after Moxica had spent so much time standing in the spray from the sea.

He tore his mind away from that line of thought.

What was it about that man that made him react as if he were looking at a woman instead? It was… unnatural.

Of course Moxica could easily be mistaken for a woman when seen from a distance, from behind, out of the corner of one's eye – and he saw a lot of him that way every day of their voyage.

Columbus shifted to where he could see the younger man's profile. No way could he be mistaken for a woman anymore now. His finely chiseled features were more delicate than those of most Spaniards he had met, and yet there was nothing effeminate about them.

Moxica's face may have been definitely male, but it changed nothing about the stirrings in Columbus' body as he watched the man. Those were stirrings that he did not welcome in the least. Maybe the voyage was getting to him more than he had expected it to after all. In contrast to many of his men, he had not had much intercourse with the native girls the first time around. The locals quite simply did not appeal to him that much – they simply did not compare to Beatriz, who was waiting for him at home.

His body had decided to be rebellious this time around, though, pretending that Moxica, of all people, was more than just another noble. A male noble to boot.

He tried to keep as much distance between them as possible, studying Moxica's habits. Avoiding him when he could, while still keeping an eye on his doings proved to be more than challenging. It certainly was a distraction that he did not need.

Tearing his gaze away from Moxica before the other man noticed and possibly jumped to conclusions of some kind or another, Columbus stared out over the sea as well, focusing on the horizon as it bobbed slightly on the waves.

Once they struck land, he'd find a wiling girl among the natives and give his body what it needed. Maybe then he would finally be able to look at that horribly annoying and yet incredibly beautiful man again without risking a sudden darkening of his complexion.


	2. ASHORE

  
  
Illustration by Rebekah

The excitement of reaching the island where they had left their 39 relieved his problems with Moxica a little, at least initially. He hardly had the time to glance appreciatively at the dashing figure the Spaniard cut as he raced his stallion across the sand.

At least it was easy to conceal that appreciation behind a scowl, considering that Moxica was holding them up by delaying getting properly in line for the benefit of giving his horse some exercise by inspecting the whole line of men, as if the individual commanders couldn't keep their men where they were supposed to be without him.

To top it all off, Moxica looked impatient as he reined in his horse. 'Where are your men, Columbus?', his demeanor seemed to say.

Maybe he was reading too much into it, because that was exactly what he was thinking as well.

The lack of reaction to the announcement shots worried him, for the moment overriding any feeling he might have had concerning Moxica making his horse turn and prance just off to his left as if a sudden nervousness had taken hold of man and mount alike. The horse probably felt it had a right to it, finally able to move freely again after being stabled on board of the ship for so long, but Moxica had no such excuse.

They found the sad remains of their comrades, and grief enveloped him as he realized that he had left those brave men to be killed to the last.

Even grief, however, could not cloud his mind to the point where he would have been fool enough to approve of the revenge Moxica thought to be the fitting solution.

If they were going to find gold here, they would need the natives' help. Their experience the first time around had shown them that there was little to nothing to be found if they went sifting through rivers, trying their luck on their own. They could not afford to kill them, even alienate them, this soon.

Self-recrimination followed on the heels of grief. He shouldn't have left his men here, of all places. Of all the tribes they had visited, this one had been the least friendly, the one least inclined to receive them with open arms, and it had not been merely because they had brought a sick man into their midst. Of all the tribes they had visited, this one had treated them least like gods and most like invaders. He should have known that this was a bad idea. He should have taken the time to return his men to Utapan's tribe before setting sail back home.

Their deaths were his fault as much as those of the savages who had killed them – that was, if they had not died of disease like Pinzón had, and the natives had merely used their bodies as they were used to treating the dead.

He shared none of those considerations with Moxica, however, not thinking that he would understand or accept any of them. Instead, he groped for the only thing that he could think of that might sway him sufficiently to accept his ruling of 'no revenge'.

"You want a war?" he asked as he turned away from Moxica's exasperated face. The Spaniard was just barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes at him. "Fine," he went on, schooling his face into a mask of calm as he looked back at the other man. "We are a thousand. They outnumber us by ten."

Moxica met his eyes and he held them, not quite a staring contest yet but with the potential of becoming one. "Who will we kill? Which tribe?"

A half-smile crossed Moxica's features, making him look like he was talking down at a child who had just asked a stupid question.

"We don't need to know."

That expression, that tone and that statement bordered on the insolent. It was time to pull rank, much as he hated it. If he let Moxica rebel now and lead the men where he knew they wanted to go, he would lose all authority over them their first day on shore.

"Moxica, try to remember who you're talking to." Not a threat, not even an explicit warning. Just a gentle reminder that he might use with Fernando, that he might once have used with Diego. Two could play that game, and it was quite enough to drive home the one all-important point:

I am the Queen's man, the one chosen to head this expedition, the Viceroy of the West Indies, Governor of all the lands claimed by me in the name of Spain, and I outrank you by more than you would care to think about.

The point got across well enough.

Moxica turned, giving a minute nod to indicate that he had understood, and held his peace.

It was only a momentary respite, Columbus was certain.

That man needed to be kept on a short leash and under close observation, but how close could he bear to keep him? Not knowing when he could get that relief he had promised himself, now that they had found the village abandoned, how well would he be able to keep his inappropriate desire from clouding his judgment regarding Moxica?

Unwilling to ponder the matter any longer, and knowing that the men needed to be addressed more directly than by his exchange with their commanding officer, he turned to face them and explain his reasoning.

They submitted to his will in silence.

The natives had to return at some point. The village had not been abandoned for long yet, and nothing suggested that they had planned to abandon it for a long time to come.

Columbus even suspected that they had fled when they had seen them approach, fearing retribution for the death of their countrymen. There was another consideration that he did not let himself ponder too much. If they had killed the thirty-nine, then how would seeing that they had the power to end the life of their gods affect their attitude towards them?

He sent most of the men back to the shore to unload the boats, ready to set up camp or return to the ship depending on what would happen, charged Utapan with trying to draw out the natives, and did his best to ignore Moxica galloping his horse through the deserted village.

Utapan announced the others' presence, and Moxica's horse apparently agreed, growing increasingly restless and turning, rising on its hind legs even. Or maybe it merely reflected its rider's anticipation. Was he hoping to be given an excuse to strike out at them once they came out of hiding?

Moxica couldn't have left a deeper first impression on the natives if he had tried. As they surged in, trying to touch and feel the creature that was as yet unknown to them, Moxica first spun and turned his horse, making the animal look wilder than it was. Eventually, to his credit, he steadied his mount, coming to stand unmovingly in their midst, for all the world like a rider's monument of stone as he watched them paw the horse, his clothes and hair with a thinly veiled look of disgust on his face.

It came as a surprise. It was the kind of situation that Columbus would have expected to give rise to more problems than he wanted to handle. Moxica could have drawn his sword and beaten them off, probably injured some, angered others and frightened the rest beyond the point where it would be possible to work with them.

Maybe, just maybe, this was a sliver of hope. Maybe Moxica, too, could be worked with after all. Maybe for all his bravado and nobleman's airs he was still a sensible man at heart.

As Columbus approached at the head of his men, the natives parted from around Moxica and the man even dismounted, proving himself not some godly creature with four legs and two heads, but, in fact, two separate creatures altogether. Columbus had no idea why he had given up his advantage of greater height and speed and the ability to attack from above, though he did notice from the corner of his eye that the Spaniard was whispering to his horse and stroking its neck, as if he felt that he had to make amends for the previous hands-on examination.

It would have been nice if he had dismounted because he had seen Columbus approach and was trying not to usurp his position with the natives, enabling them to turn their attention towards the man in charge more easily than if they had remained in the presence of that incredible merged creature.

The idea was unlikely, bordering on the ridiculous, but it was a nice thought to entertain for a second.

He had no time to ponder any of that anyway. He may not have planned on taking revenge on Guarionex and his people unless attacked first, but neither was he going to simply proceed as if nothing had happened at all. 'Good morning, we're back, don't worry about possibly murdering my men, I understand they could be an annoying lot at times' – Not bloody likely.

Seeing them, naked as always, with their native trappings and haircuts, came almost as a surprise. When he had thought of returning here, he had always had an image of a tidy little village of improved huts set up under the guidance of his men in mind, the natives clothed in the style of peasants or at least having adopted a more civilized attire in some other way. Utapan and his men had taken to proper clothing and appropriate hairstyles well and quickly enough, after all.

Admittedly, the same could be said of some of his thirty-nine and native hairstyle and dress. Some had even had their noses pierced, just as Utapan had taken out his ring long ago. The only time 'his' natives had returned to their traditional attire had been for the presentation to the Queen, and then at his express request.

In any case, seeing those naked bodies added another barb to Columbus' heart, another spike of failure to add to the one planted there by finding what remained of the bodies of his men. They'd have to give a decent burial to them once things were sorted out with Guarionex – who now approached him at the head of his men, apparently fearless for all that he had been hiding earlier.

One volley from the arquebusses had him scurry back along with his men, putting distance between the heavy rifles and themselves. Of course the natives didn't have the first idea of how far the range of those weapons was.

The stage set for his entrance, Columbus stepped out of the line of riflemen and walked forward, silently, until he stood just a man's length away from Guarionex, taking in his red face paint, the headdress.

Without shifting his gaze from the native chief, he gave Utapan his instructions and waited for the response.

When it came, it was the best he could have hoped for under the circumstances.

A raid that the natives had fled from, but his men had tried to face. Maybe they had thought they could beat them off. Maybe they had not taken the threat seriously. Maybe they had thought that by protecting the village from an attacking force, they would gain higher standing and more support among the locals, enabling them to better perform the tasks he had left them with. Find that source of gold for one thing.

Perhaps they had been set up. Maybe they had been taken unaware, the natives sneaking away and leaving them to their fate. Columbus knew that he could not afford to discard that option. At least he thought that they were relatively safe now. He had over a thousand men. A single raiding party would hardly be a match for them even if they brought a few hundred warriors.

Moxica, of course, had come to his own conclusions already.

At least he had the decency not to challenge Columbus outright. He walked over, entirely unconcerned about the fact that at his back there stood a group of men holding spears that they could throw and hit with at incredible distances.

"The monkey's lying," he stated his assessment of the situation just as he passed the admiral, silently enough to not be heard by the rows of soldiers.

Oh yes, Moxica knew precisely where he stood.

Which did nothing to solve the problem that he still had no idea where Guarionex stood.

It might have been preferable the other way around. He did have the authority to throw Moxica in the brig if he needed to, after all.

"Colón, you talk too much," the Spaniard went on, addressing him with the Spanish version of his name, as usual. The statement as such was ridiculous – he had not said a word since Utapan had translated the chief's answer.

He refused to acknowledge that Moxica had said anything at all, until he went on: "Here they are. We should kill them."

That could not be left unanswered, and Columbus turned towards the officer to remind him that they were not taking votes on the matter.

"No. We'll do it my way."

Like Moxica, he had not raised his voice. He saw the other man nod slightly as he was already turning back towards the natives, as if he had never doubted that he would be obeyed – as if that minimalistic nod, once again bordering on insolence, was not even needed, because there had never been any question about whose voice would be giving the command to act or refrain from action.

If he had been uncertain of the right course of action before, he was no longer wavering now. It wasn't only that he needed the natives on his side if they were to find gold, if they were to prosper on this island – if they were to _survive_ on this island even.

This had just become a matter of establishing who was in charge and whose opinion ruled among them. The need to have the men see that Moxica accepted his command had grown to the point where he only barely felt distracted by the presence of the other man so close beside him that he could sense the body heat radiating out from him.


	3. ACHIEVEMENT

  
  
Illustration by Rebekah

Columbus set his men to building the cathedral the moment they had finished erecting shelters for themselves and the officers. They needed that building. He needed that building. His authority over the men was not even close to what he wanted it to be. Too often, someone would look at Moxica before doing what he had said, and too often, Moxica's nod came too late, too close to defiance. And yet, Moxica gave him no reason to take steps against him without exposing himself to ridicule or worse.

Oh yes, he needed that cathedral, a powerful building, a symbol, an icon, to remind the men of what they had accomplished every time they laid eyes on the tower rising over the settlement, every time they heard the bell toll. To remind them that they had accomplished it under his orders, not Moxica's.

He needed that visual proof of his success.

The men also needed it as a place to find God in an entirely ungodly location. They needed the solace a church could offer when there were setbacks or deaths.

There hadn't been many, but it had happened before and Columbus silently mourned every single man he lost to the forests, accident or fever.

That church was what they needed to have, and soon – and if he had needed any proof of the truth of that assumption, he found it in the willingness and enthusiasm with which the men went to work when it came to bringing in and pulling up the heavy bell.

For once, no one was complaining.

Then, from one moment to the next, the entire thing threatened to fail. The blasted bell turned out to be too heavy to be pulled up into the tower according to their original plan.

What would the men think once they realized that someone's calculations or estimates had been wrong? How long until the first would speak up to say that God didn't want them here, that he had committed blasphemy by trying to settle here, or that he had lost divine favor for his too-lenient approach with the natives?

Frantically looking around for a solution, his eyes fell on Moxica and Guevara, just riding in to watch them. That smug expression on his face did nothing to raise Columbus' spirits, but the horse under him certainly did. That horse was exactly what he needed to make the difference.

He walked over rather than call the other men to him. For one thing he wasn't sure that they would and for another, he was quite certain that Moxica would not surrender that stallion easily. He knew what the man was like when it came to that horse. He didn't need everyone to hear it if something went wrong.

"Moxica, I need your horses," he told him without preamble. He was not going to give the man any opening to start a discussion about this.

The rider didn't move a muscle. "My horse does no work."

Oh yes, Moxica, it will. It will if I have to pull you off of its back with my bare hands, because I need that bell in that tower. We need that bell in that tower.

Columbus swallowed the words, instead trying for reason once again.

"We all have to work, Moxica."

"Not my horse." They both kept their tones as if they were discussing court gossip or grain prices: Light and easy, not betraying the tension that formed between them to the point of nearly becoming a tangible thing.

He refused to admit any considerations of what would happen if Moxica managed to refuse.

And he certainly tried to as, without a further word, he wheeled his horse to ride away.

Or started to.

Expecting a move like this, Columbus had been ready for the telltale movement of muscle as the younger man guided his horse into the turn. His hand shot up, grasping the reins close to the bridle and holding the animal in place.

Moxica's mount snorted and shook its head unwillingly at the presence of two contradicting commands and, even more, at the sudden sharp tug on the bridge in its mouth.

His voice was still mild as he spoke again, the moment the animal had quieted down after Moxica's quick loosening of reins and soothing touch.

"Forgive me, Moxica - but it was your horse I was talking about."

If the other man pushed any farther, he would have to act on his earlier thoughts and manhandle him to the ground. He didn't doubt that he could, but it would be a poor show of sovereignty if he had to physically wrestle down his officers to make them obey him.

A smile appeared on Moxica's face, as if he had been thinking precisely the same. Was he wondering how far he was willing to go? At least a physical confrontation would reflect as badly on Moxica as on him.

There still was the point that he could use open defiance to strip Moxica of his position and keep him nicely out of the way in future. That would bring with it the new problem of having to handle Moxica's supporters – for the man had many who were loyal to him among the group – but it was also a consideration that could be put aside for a later time.

With a near-imperceptible shake of his head, Moxica dismounted, his movements slow, deliberate and stating clearly for all willing to look that he was doing so because it was his decision to contribute, not because the _admirante_ had said so.

Columbus decided to ignore it. "Thank you, Moxica," he formally acknowledged the action, though not the spirit in which it had happened.

Moxica wordlessly, smilingly bowed his head, accepting the words at least.

For the time being, the status quo between them remained unchanged.

He did not let go of the horse's bridle until it was harnessed up and ready to help pull the bell in place. He lost sight of Moxica when he turned back to give the command for another try.

As he had hoped, two horses on the ropes made the difference they needed. The bell lifted from the ground and moved up, heave by heavy heave.

No one felt the strain now, the rope burns on their hands, the pull of the heavy weight on muscles – that would come later, but it would come with the knowledge of a job well completed. It would be a reminder of the things accomplished, together, under his direction.

For the first time those bells chimed, and the men dropped to their knees, first a few, then more and more until a mere handful remained standing.

Walking away from the finished building, Columbus took in his men – for at this moment, for the first time, possibly for the only time ever, they were all his. All but one, that was.

Moxica was leading away his horse. He had saddled it again but not mounted, as if he did not wish to impose his weight on the animal before making sure that the unusual work had not harmed it.


	4. DESPERATE

  
  
Illustration by Rebekah

Adrián de Moxica was fuming. That little Italian upstart had had the nerve to decree that everyone had to participate in the work to build up the fort and bring in the subsequent harvest.

And by everyone, he meant everyone.

His definition of everyone included every person who met the criteria of two working legs, two working arms and a head still attached to their shoulders.

He had revoked the rule that exempted nobility from manual labor.

This time he'd do it, Moxica promised himself. This time he'd stand up to that man and not back down, no matter what he said to him, no matter how often Colón reminded him of the fact that he had the Queen's favor.

There would be no backing down this time around. Not for him, not for his horse, and not for any of the other nobles that would let him speak for them.

He wouldn't listen to the man's words. Hell, Colón never even managed to pronounce his name correctly!

But even as he went through that sequence of thought, he knew that it wouldn't make a difference.

Colón would look at him from those blue eyes of his and he'd cave in, like he always did.

Because in the end, no matter how he tried, no matter how he wanted to, he just never managed to say no to that man.

Oh, how he hated him for it – for being able to play him like that, to make him want to just do something to please him, to once hear a 'well done, Moxica', no matter that it turned into 'Moksika' in Colón's mouth more often than not – and even when not, it wasn't close to the actual pronunciation.

That wasn't going to happen, though, since everything he did seemed to be wrong by default. Colón must really have come to hate him by now, and that, at least, wasn't surprising in the least.

He hated himself for feeling that way about the other man, and hid that desire under an extra layer of haughtiness, distance and contrariness whenever the _admirante_ was around.

It wasn't the fact that he had, at times, thought of how those large hands would feel on his body. He didn't hate that.

Moxica had led expeditions to the East before, to negotiate trade agreements, and while he had not been acknowledged by the crown for his results – and results he had brought, more so, he thought, than Colón, who was the Queen's pet basically for doing nothing but hit land with his ships just in time to stave off mutiny. His earlier travels had led him to places where men freely did with each other what Italians paid for in secret establishments under threat of arrest if caught, and Spaniards pretended not to engage in at all.

No matter what Colón might think, he was not at all opposed to trying out a local custom or two, and he had found that he could, in fact, get quite used to that one. It was different, certainly, from having a woman, but quite satisfying.

The problem was that at the moment, women held so little appeal to him. Maybe it was because the only ones available were the natives, most of them going about naked and leaving nothing at all to imagination.

Maybe – or more likely: probably – it was the fact that he was entirely focused on that Italian commoner at the moment, which was precisely the reason why he hated himself so much right now.

Colón was nowhere near his league. Common-born, promoted to nobility and wealth because that suicide voyage of his had returned successfully. The man was a nothing, so far beneath him that he should not have been required to acknowledge his presence other than to give orders to him or demand an answer, that he should have been able to insist on being called 'Don Adrián' instead of whatever current abuse Colón came up with for his family's name.

Except that he wasn't and he couldn't, and he had no idea what Queen Isabella had seen in that oaf to give him ships and men.

Suppressing a sigh, he took back the mental lie.

He knew exactly what the Queen had seen in Colón. Common-born he may have been, but he carried himself with the air of a man who had every right to claim more than was due to him by birth. The air of authority and confidence that he exuded when talking to the men had not come with his titles. Where Moxica questioned, he seemed to be absolutely certain that he knew the right thing to do. By the time Moxica made a suggestion, Colón had plenty of reasons for why it was a bad one, and he had no qualms about laying all of them down before him for scrutiny.

It would have been easier if the man had been a fool, slow-witted, or even openly manipulative. Any of those would have been easier to counter than his entirely reasonable insistence that he was right and Moxica – or whoever else he was talking to at any given moment – was wrong.

Maybe it was that which had led to Colón's expedition being a success, given royal attention, and his own merely leading to a handful of coin and a few new experiences.

There was no way that he could admit any of that to the other man, or anyone else for that matter. He certainly could never, ever, concede that a mere commoner had outdone him by so much.

He would never accept the position of second-best behind Colón – a position that he had certainly held ever since their first meeting at the Queen's banquet, where Colón had tricked him into trying the tobacco, setting him to coughing and everyone else to laughing at his expense.

Tobacco was another thing that he had come to loathe, never accepting it when offered. It was so much easier to avoid than the Italian was.


	5. DARKNESS

  
  
Illustration by Rebekah

It was tax collection time, and Moxica had managed to get himself appointed supervisor over the proceedings. At least this was work that he could reconcile with his noble standing. He watched the queues of naked and near-naked natives delivering their gold while he enjoyed a juicy piece of melon – one of the few local crops that were actually edible as far as he was concerned – and entertained himself by trying to guess at which ones of the waiting men would fall short of the required amount.

When one of them refused to pay anything at all, he walked over to the collectors' tables, a nagging urge in the back of his mind.

Gold was something Colón craved, to send back to the Queen, who he referred to as his queen in spite of the fact that he was pretty much the only non-native man on this island whose queen she was not.

Preventing the loss of gold might bring him that little acknowledgement that he hoped for most these days and that never came. He couldn't refuse it when hearing that he had secured his income in precious metal… could he?

Overcoming his aversion to touching the dirty rags that served as the native's shirt – at least he had a shirt rather than showing up naked like many of the others – he focused on the heartbeat that he could feel beneath it. It belatedly occurred to him that he had not even known if European anatomy was close enough to theirs to have their hearts in roughly the same location. Since it appeared that they did, it didn't matter.

This heartbeat was fast, pounding as if the heart's owner was afraid, ready to bolt. Afraid of punishment for something he couldn't help, or afraid to be caught in a lie?

Moxica would not have cared one way or the other. He would have gladly used this Indio as an example to keep others from trying the same ploy, but he was very well aware that Colón would think differently. Colón would expect him to get to the bottom of the matter and act based on the results, and if he was questioned on how he had come to his conclusions, he’d better have an unbroken chain of reasoning at hand.

He found the information he was looking for in the native's eyes. There was defiance, not fear, reflected in them. This native, this … creature … had not come to confess that he had not been able to find any of the gold he was required to pay. He had come with the intention of not paying and getting away with it.

Punishment was needed, and in a way that would remind him and everyone else that what was owed was not to be held back.

"He's lying," he shared his insight with the tax collector and his interpreter, while quickly thinking up a fitting punishment.

Personally, he would have preferred to separate that ugly head from its neck with the blade of his sword, but the _admirante_ was still very much opposed to killing the natives.

Leave him alive then, but still make an example of him.

He was a thief, and the punishment for thieves was known.

"Tell him to put his hand on the table, like this." He showed the interpreter what he meant, the position in which one of those thieves would be tied for the sentence to be carried out.

Shrugging out of his jacket, he put it aside. It was too expensive to be soiled with blood needlessly, and there would probably be a spray of it. He continued to speak as he did it. "Tell them we know they're hiding the gold from us. Tell them this is how we treat thieves and liars."

His sword was out of its sheath now, gleaming in the sun. It felt good in his hand. He had had precious little opportunity to use it since they had arrived. No good weapon should be reduced to being used only as an extension of the owner's arm, to pick up things from the saddle, just as no good horse should be reduced to being used as a draft animal for a stupid bell. It had been a week before his stallion had recovered from the rope marks sufficiently to bear a saddle again.

The scribe had caught on to what he was planning now.

"Don Adrián! You cannot do this thing!"

Was everyone here going to tell him what he could or could not do? Colón's words he might have to heed, but this was only a tax-collecting clerk. It was almost amusing to think that he was trying to give commands to a man of Moxica's standing.

"I can't?" he asked, pretending to consider the information, even half-turning away from the table with a low chuckle. "But I can."

He whirled, bringing the sword up, then down.

Cutting off a man's hand was not as easy as it may have seemed to someone who had never attempted such a feat. He knew from experience that the bite of sword through flesh usually halted at the bone at the very latest. Flesh posed a lot more resistance than seemed likely at first glance.

This was supposed to be an example, not butchery. He did not want to have to hack at that arm several times, especially since no one was holding down the perpetrator for him. He would get one stroke and one only, so he lifted the sword over his head with a two-handed grip and slammed it down hard, overcoming the hardness of bone and putting a notch in the table below.

The expected spray of blood mostly hit the clerk, as Moxica couldn't help but note with satisfaction.

Ignoring the outcries of protest, he lifted his sword and examined the blade for new nicks, satisfying himself that it had not acquired any. He was carrying good steel, but a sword was not an object to be careless about.

He never found out what Colón thought he should have done.

Even he must have realized that letting theft go unpunished would multiply the number of thieves as soon as word about it got around.

From the confines of his cell, he had plenty of time to ponder that question, to go over what had happened in his mind time and time again.

How had he ended up sitting in court as the accused, with Colón presiding as judge and persecutor in one? He must have been feeling very proud of himself. A common-born man passing judgment on a noble was not a frequent event.

"In one act of brutality, you have created chaos. Tribes who were fighting each other are now joining forces against us! All of that because of your criminal savagery!"

Unfortunately, there was truth to the words. They had not gotten any more gold after his punishment of that savage, but the resistance had grown to unprecedented levels. He couldn't have expected that, he told himself. He couldn't have.

But he should have.

Colón would have, most likely.

To avoid going down that path, he summoned up all the rage that he could. No, Colón would not have. He merely had the benefit of not having been the one who did the deed, now able to hide behind claims that he knew better.

He had done the right thing, showing them who was in charge and that there were consequences to attempts to steal from them.

Facing the tribunal, being told that he was confined to his rooms, to be shipped back to Spain like so much cargo on the first outbound ship, had enabled him to focus on hate. Hate for Colón and his brothers, running this so-called colony.

Hate had carried him through the humiliation of that event. Everyone in the fort, as far as he could see, had come to watch.

He directed it at Colón as much as at the local savages. If they hadn't tried to get around paying taxes, none of this would have happened in the first place.

Forcing a calm tone into his voice and carefully keeping his expression unmoved, almost amused, at the thought of those men claiming the right to judge him, who in the order of things was so far above them, he stated the truth of the matter. "Savagery is what monkeys understand."

The whip – or sword, as the case may be – was the only way to get through to them. He had trained his own servants well. He knew they could be docile enough once you had gotten the point across.

"You should have done the same a long time ago, Don Cristóbal."

Maybe not the wisest thing to do, to give the man advice in his own court room – court "yard" was more like it. After all, they were having an open-air event, since there was no room in the entire fort that could seat even half of the men who had wanted to attend this.

Oh yes, he knew how to behave in court, even if it meant addressing Colón with the polite 'Don'.

Something needed to be added, though. He couldn't possibly end by practically acknowledging Colón's superiority over him by addressing him as his judge.

"Your ways… they don't work."

He saw the expression on the older man's face shift, then set as he came to a conclusion – or decided to pronounce the conclusion that he had probably come to the moment he had heard that Moxica had done something that he could condemn him for.

"You will be held in detention. Deprived of your privileges until you are sent back to Spain where you will be judged."

Nothing surprising about that. It was what Colón had wanted to do to him ever since they had arrived. He even suspected that he would have liked to send him back home on a raft during their crossing, judging by the way he had kept staring at him whenever he thought it wouldn’t be noticed.

Guevara stood at the side of the assembly, watching, waiting for a sign. Did that fool think that he might come out victorious if he was going against Colón openly now?

The only thing he could do now was wait. With too many men on the other side, now that Moxica had been painted as the war-monger, the man ruthlessly risking their lives out of a lack of self-restraint, they wouldn't have stood a chance.

"Have you anything to say?"

Of course he did.

As he rose to his feet slowly, he quickly considered several options, weighing his words now for what would have the greatest effect on Colón, what would hurt him the most.

"For four years now, we are here," he began, watching Colón closely for a reaction and listening hard for the reaction of the crowd around him. "We stayed here. Four years. Because we believed your promises. But we find neither gold nor your earthly paradise."

His words had an effect, if not on the so-called judge, then on the people sitting around him. He had thrown his barbs into their hearts and hit true.

Slowly, he walked over to Colón's table, leaning forward towards him. No one kept him from doing so. No guards jumped to his aid. Did they consider him that small a threat, or had they already switched sides?

It was not the time to find out yet.

"You and your brothers, you have failed, Signore Colombo," he placed his last poisoned words, stabbing them right at the Colón brothers in front of him and hoping that they would fester in their minds. A foreigner, a lowborn and a failure. That was what they were, every one of them.

He was led away to the makeshift cell behind the barracks then.

It wasn't that bad, as cells went, he thought. Not that he had a great deal of experience with cells, but it was comparatively cool, the bed wasn't much worse than his own, he had room to move, a desk to work at, and walls thin enough to hear through.

He heard of the raid on the village that way.

This was the time to strike, while everyone was exhausted, licking their wounds and particularly vulnerable to another strike against them. He only hoped that Guevara and his men would be smart enough to recognize it as well.

They were.

The sight of Guevara had rarely given him more pleasure than when he suddenly showed up in his cell, holding out his sword.

Silently, Moxica got up from his chair, threw on his jacket and buckled the sword to his hip.

Everyone was waiting for him now. Guevara may have led the men in here, but he had no idea where to go now that he had arrived. Moxica was all too happy to step into the place that he had just vacated. Four years of humiliation at the hands of a common-born merchant called for revenge.

They entered the governor's mansion unhindered.

It didn't take him long to find Colón's desk with his plans for that ideal city of his that he was trying – and failing - to create here. Rolling up a parchment, he set its edges on fire, turning it into a torch that he could use to light the remaining pages, drapes and hangings, tablecloths and anything else flammable.

He only regretted that he couldn't stick around to see the governor's face when he saw that his dreams had just been reduced to ash.


	6. AGONY

Columbus stood speechless as he watched his home burn. People were scurrying frantically, trying to stop the fire with buckets of water that hardly made a difference against the hot blaze.

His home, so far away from home, all of his possessions, the letters from his sons except for the one that he carried in his pocket, his plans for the city of Isabel, all of his notes and records were going up in flames there before his eyes.

He should have felt something more than the all-encompassing numbness that filled his mind at the sight of it.

Even in those first moments, he did not believe in an accident, although it certainly could have been one.

When word came to him that the guards in the barracks were dead and Moxica's cell empty, he knew for certain that it had not been anything of that kind.

This fire had been set, deliberately, by a man who had to really hate him. It was supposed to be symbolic, he was certain of that, heralding destruction of all that he was, all that he had achieved and all that he owned.

At that moment, there was one thing that he knew for certain: Moxica had to be hunted down and re-captured.

The man probably had no idea how much it had cost him to pass judgment on him.

He had known, from the moment they had convened the tribunal, that the only verdict that would have stood a chance of averting further violence would have been to repay him in kind for the cruelty he had committed.

An eye for an eye – or a hand for a hand, as the case may be.

Nevertheless, he had found himself unable to mutilate that beautiful body, or to give the order to do so. He had been incapable of facing whatever he would have seen on Moxica's face after hearing that kind of verdict. Would it have been pain? Fear? Desperation? Pure, cold hatred?

He thought that he had seen hatred there when Moxica had spoken at the end of the session.

His words had stung, striking deeply into his core and sticking like barbed arrows. Was he truly the failure that Moxica had painted him?

Did his men believe that?

His own brother had said as much not too long ago. _Your ways don't work._

Should they, then, turn around and rule by the sword, ravage all the villages like the one that they had raided already?

No, that couldn't be it. There had to be other ways.

Those other ways would be found, but they would also have to wait.

Moxica was the more pressing problem at the moment. He and his men had to be found, put down like the rabid dogs they had turned into if necessary.

They simply could not be left on the loose. Whatever they were up to, they were going to do even more harm to everyone involved.

If they caught him unguarded, it would most likely be his death. So he had to be theirs before they got a chance to do it.

He would find them, and this time around, Moxica's hearing would end with an order of execution. He'd make himself watch, and maybe he would finally be free of the curse of that man.

Maybe one day he'd be able to forgive himself.

*

They tracked the mutineers to the river, walking right into their ambush. Columbus was surprised at the number of Indians they had among them. The first shots they fired at them from cover stopped the advance of those loyal to the governor only for a moment before they stormed the far bank, engaging in close combat, swords somewhat hindered by the denser growth, but nevertheless efficient.

Columbus disposed of the man who had tried to gut him, dealing him a painful blow with his sword that would keep him from getting back into the melee but probably not kill him, when he spotted a black blur making off into the trees uphill.

Moxica was trying to get away.

Forgetting all about the battle at hand, he followed. His mind was fixed on one thing only now.

He had to catch and capture Moxica. As long as he remained free, as long as he remained alive, he was going to be a threat. He would always find ways to return and sway people to his side.

The man's hate for Columbus, as evidenced by the destruction of the manor, was too great to expect anything else. Columbus had no idea what exactly had happened to inspire that hate. Maybe it had always been there, the camouflage put over it wearing thin and disappearing over time.

Other men were storming the hill along with Columbus, but he hardly noticed them. He kept his eyes fixed on the trail Moxica had left, his mind fixed on doing whatever needed to be done. Broken twigs and footprints in the wet forest floor gave him away.

Like so often during this time of the year, it had started to rain. Bad luck for Moxica.

Once, he almost lost him. Looking around, he noticed one of the Indians, wearing the native dress – that was to say, nothing but a scant loincloth –, hiding among the trees. Moxica must have missed him in his flight.

The man pointed wordlessly.

Uncertain, Columbus turned, looking at another native who seemed to have sprouted right out of the ground on his other side, close enough for Columbus to reach out and touch him. He pointed in the same direction.

So these two were on his side, then? Still supporting him after all that had happened? Recognizing Moxica for what he was, knowing that he needed to be brought to justice? Maybe there was hope after all.

That was something to think about later, when things had quieted down and he had the leisure to do any such thing.

His two new comrades followed him along, trotting easily and soundlessly through the forest, now behind, now in front of him, while he splashed heavily through the puddles that had collected here.

They caught up with Moxica at the top of a cliff.

As the natives silently slid into position, training their arrows at the dark-clad man, Moxica stood at the edge, lost in thought.

Even now, Columbus could not help but notice how beautiful the man was.

He must have heard his approach, but the Spaniard did not turn to face him until he called out his name.

His face was wet from his dash through the moist foliage and the rain drizzling down. Were there tears mixing with the rainwater on his cheeks? No, that must have been a trick of his imagination.

Moxica looked at him wordlessly. Strands of hair were sticking to his wet face as they stared at each other for a moment that stretched on and on, neither of them saying a word.

Columbus was not the one who broke eye contact first.

Slowly, the other man looked around, finding and taking note of the bowmen on either side of him.

He was outnumbered, with no place to go, the cliff in front of him, two bows and a sword behind.

With one controlled movement, he sheathed his sword. His gaze had returned to Columbus, where it stayed, unwavering, while he undid the knot and buckle that fastened his sword belt.

Relief washed over Columbus. Moxica was going to surrender. There would be no last duel between them, no death at the hands of Indian arrows or Spanish steel. He tried not to think of the fact that he would have to order Moxica's death later on. It did not have to be done now, and that was what mattered for the moment. He'd have time to deal with the rest tomorrow, or the day after that.

"You know what will be said about this in Spain," Moxica spoke as the clasp on his belt finally came loose and he moved to put it down slowly. "Don't you?"

As a matter of fact, he didn't. He really couldn't have cared less at the moment either.

Moxica treated his sword as well as his horse, not dropping it even now, even when he must have known that he would never wear or use it again. He lowered it onto the ground gently, as if it was a fragile thing.

He had more to say, however.

"You are nothing. Your bastards will never inherit a title." His voice dropped to a mere whisper, just loud enough to still be heard. "No…  We… We are everything. We are immortal."

The expression on his face changed, his mouth suddenly set in grim determination as he turned towards the cliff and jumped. His arms stretched out to his sides, he seemed to be flying for a moment, as Columbus watched his feet clear the cliff in horrified shock.

The onslaught of emotion almost slammed him to his knees. One long, agonized scream tore free from his throat. In one breath, Moxica had hit him on so many levels, cheating him out of any closure, judging himself rather than being judged by him, leaving a hole in the little corner of his mind – or was that his heart? – that had, to the end, always been a little happier when he had set eyes on the nobleman, even after he had become his nemesis, and shattering the confidence that he had had in the future.

No one could claim that Moxica wasn't efficient, given proper incentive.

Eventually, Columbus managed to force his legs to move, to carry him to the edge of the cliff to look down at Moxica's shattered body below.

The first of his men were appearing below, victorious after the battle with the mutineers. Many of them sported bloodstains and makeshift bandages. Some were very clearly in need of a doctor – so at least Chanca would finally get an opportunity to do some work. The former royal surgeon had been complaining quite vocally that there was nothing for him to do but treat the fevers that came and went whether he did anything about them or not, and the odd work accident.

The mutineers had fared much worse. A handful of them were dragged along, wrists bound with whatever the men had had at hand, held in check with swords and crossbows.

Two of the men looked up to see their commander standing at the top of the cliff, then found what he was looking at.

Moxica's fall had been broken by a wood-frame scaffolding structure that had been set up at the foot of the cliff for whatever reason.

One of the soldiers approached the body, suddenly stopping and drawing his dagger.

"What are you doing?" Columbus yelled down, confused.

The man looked up, the dagger gleaming in his hand. "Ending his suffering," he called back.

Ending—"You mean he's still alive?" The wave of relief and hope that washed over him made him stagger – or maybe that was the equally powerful sense of self-loathing and disgust that followed it. That was Moxica they were talking about, the man who had done all that he could to destroy him, even on the brink of suicide.

With a glance down, the soldier below replied: "Barely."

"Leave him that way!" Without waiting for a reply, the governor took off at a mad run through the forest, making for the foot of that cliff. Moxica wasn't going to get off that easily. He had certainly not expected to survive this fall. Now that he had, he would suffer the consequences of his actions, along with the others.

Wild thoughts filled Columbus' mind as he slapped aside branches snagging at his clothes and his hair, drawing wet streaks on his already-moist face.

He burst out of the trees and skidded to a stop, barely avoiding barging into another man. His face set in an unreadable mask, he walked over to where Moxica lay, unmoving, the soldier still standing over him.

When Columbus approached he held out the dagger to him. Was he thinking that he wanted to execute him himself?

He should, he knew that.

It wouldn't even be an execution, he realized when he saw the twisted body lying among the wooden logs and branches. A mercy killing.

Moxica's right side had taken the brunt of the fall, it seemed. Gleaming, bloody bone was sticking out of his leg below the knee. More bone was visible between wrist and elbow. The other leg was lying at an improbable angle. Blood stained his jacket, visible on the brocade and leather stripes even though it was well hidden by the black basic material. A red trickle was running from the corner of his mouth and down his chin, dripping down to mix with the rain puddles below him.

And yet his chest was still moving, ever so slightly expanding with every shallow breath.

He took the dagger that was offered and pushed it resolutely into his belt.

"No more killing today," he rasped, his voice not quite obeying his command. "Moxica will face the tribunal and punishment like all the others if he lives that long. Get me Chanca."

No one moved, at first.

Eyes blazing, he whirled, staring down the men, who in turn were looking at him as if their commander had just gone mad. "NOW!"

After a brief exchange of looks, two of the men set off at a brisk trot towards the fort.

Columbus gestured at the captives. "March those back and lock them up somewhere. Get your wounds seen to. Two of you stay here and give me a hand."

Without waiting to see if he was obeyed, he started shifting the logs around Moxica, clearing the path towards him. At least they had material to fashion a stretcher from right here.

Oh no, Moxica would not cheat him out of anything that was by all rights his. At that moment, Columbus was set on one thing: If at all possible, that man would be nursed back to health sufficiently to be executed, preferably by his own hand, and know what was happening.

Chanca arrived. The former royal surgeon was several years Columbus' senior, his close-cropped hair and neatly trimmed beard greying increasingly over the course of the last four years. He was, as always, impeccably clad in dark breeches and an off-white silk shirt under a trimmed vest with restrained but exquisite embroidery down the hem.

Taking one look at Moxica, he scowled and turned back towards the fort.

"You should have called a priest, not a surgeon, Colón."

Columbus walked forward, blocking the doctor's retreat. "He's still alive, Chanca."

The surgeon's voice held no emotion as he spoke. "He might as well be dead."

The governor took a step closer. He easily towered over the older man by a head. "Weren't you complaining of lack of a challenge just the other day? There's work for you. If his blood isn't sufficiently noble for you to sully your hands with, I don't know whose is."

The older man met Columbus's eyes evenly, his face unreadable as they stood facing off for a minute that seemed to stretch into eternity. Finally, he sighed, nodded and stepped aside, away from Columbus' glowering stare. "There's not much I can do here. If he's still alive by the time you get him back to the fort, I'll work on him. I still suggest you get a priest. Before you try moving him, that is." He glanced up and down the cliff. "What happened to him anyway?"

That was a question with a pretty obvious answer, Columbus thought, but he did realize that what Chanca wanted to know was how Moxica had ended up falling. He opened his mouth to speak, then quickly closed it again, thinking of Chanca's insistence on sending for a man of God. If he told the truth, he would effectively deny Moxica the last rites. He did not want to do that, not even to his enemy. Or maybe specifically not to this enemy.

"He lost his footing and went over the cliff. The rocks were slippery from the rain." There wasn't any witness to tell differently, apart from the two natives who had been with him, and he didn't even know their names. Besides, no one knew that they had been there to begin with, and if they did, who would think of asking them to confirm his words?

Judging by Chanca's look just before he walked away towards the fort, the surgeon only believed him because he had no choice, though. What was the man thinking? Did he suspect that he had actually pushed Moxica? If so, he would have been more likely to take that dagger and finish him off when he had the opportunity.

Columbus turned to find the men who had stayed with him staring, watching the two of them intently. "Do you have nothing to do?" he snapped at them. "Get to it! And for God's sake, get that priest."

The priest came and left. With infinite care, the remaining men shifted Moxica onto a makeshift stretcher.

Every few minutes, Columbus found himself staring at the rise and fall of Moxica's chest. While he was still breathing, he was still alive. He did not understand himself. How could he feel – relief? That was the closest that he could come to describing the emotion –, knowing that the other man had a death sentence hanging over him anyway. Was he truly so cruel that he would deny him the mercy of quick death?

The truth was that he could not bear the thought of ending that life. Not now, and not whenever he would go through with the execution. At the same time, he knew that he had no choice. An example had to be made. If he didn't put his foot down hard now, the next rebellion was just an arm's length away. He had to cleanse out this rot, this plague, from among his men.

He would have some time to come to terms with it. If those injuries didn't kill him, Moxica would die once he was well enough to properly appreciate the fact.

"There he is," he told Chanca when they arrived back at Isabel. "Still breathing. It's your turn now."

No one protested when the surgeon interrupted his work on those injured in the day's fighting to tend to Moxica. The man was a noble, highest-ranking among them but for the Colón brothers. Even as a criminal, he was entitled.

Brother Buyl, who had assisted Chanca in his work so far, followed him at a silent hand signal.

Passing Columbus, he stopped and gave him one long, thoughtful look.

Strange, Columbus thought. The last time they had seen each other, just before he had led his men in search of the mutineers, the monk's eyes had held an impressive mixture of fear, disgust and horror. Now they were filled with something different, something much calmer. If he had not known better, he might have taken it for admiration.

No, that could not be, because he had done nothing worthy of admiration.

The monk paled when he saw the condition Moxica was in. "A wonder he's still alive," he whispered, standing just inside the entrance of the room they had brought him to. It was a small one, off the main area where they were keeping the majority of the sick and injured. The room had originally been intended for storage, even though it was unused right now. Columbus had not wanted to return Moxica to his old cell just off the barracks. The last thing the guards needed was to be kept awake by moans and screams, and he was very well aware of the kind of pain that Moxica's injuries would bring. He was also unwilling to return him to the little mansion that he had called his own, however.

"No wonder," Chanca replied evenly, kneeling and drawing a dagger of his own to cut away Moxica's clothing. "Sometimes, people survive falls from great height. Their bones break and absorb most of the impact, reducing the damage to vital parts. If his neck had snapped, he'd be dead. Since he hasn't died yet, he's probably going to live a while." Nothing in his voice suggested how he felt about it.

Columbus had averted his eyes the moment the surgeon had started to work. One thing he did not need to see was Moxica's naked body, broken and twisted by that fall.

A low, pain-filled sound made him look back anyway.

Chanca was tying a splint in place along Moxica's left forearm, apparently dealing with the injuries that could be treated quickly with a length of wood and some bandages first.

Moxica's face and hair had been washed clean by the rain outside. His skin was pale between rapidly darkening bruises.

His eyelids flickered open, dark eyes staring vaguely into the distance at first before snapping into focus. His breathing quickened as he fought the pain that washed over him. A new trickle of blood slowly made its way down his chin from where his teeth clamped down on his lower lip.

The physician sighed. "I'm sorry, Don Adrián," he said after only a brief glance at his patient's face. His hands never stopped working. "But I fear the worst is still to come. You took a bad fall."

That changed Moxica's expression to one of confusion. His brow creased as he seemed to try to think through the fog of pain.

"On the cliff," Columbus said calmly. If Moxica had no memory of what had happened, this was the time to reinforce his version of it. "The rocks were so wet – you slipped and slid over the edge."

Eyes fastened on his face, Moxica gave one of his near-imperceptible nods. "I remember… falling," he whispered, the piercing stare that he kept on his captor making it clear that it was more than falling he remembered.

"I hate to say this," Chanca spoke up, "but it would have been better for you if you had remained unconscious. I have to finish this, and I have to do it quickly."

Moxica closed his eyes. "When have I … ever done… the wise thing?" he gasped.

As Columbus looked down at him. Moxica lay still again, his breath rasping in and out through half-parted lips, fighting wave upon wave of pain. Another layer of the hate for Moxica that he had dredged up and wrapped himself in as in a warm and comforting coat peeled off and scattered.

"Governor, I need another man to restrain him," Chanca ordered, glancing only briefly in Columbus' direction.

"I can do it." The words had left his mouth before he realized he was going to speak them. Once said, he could not take them back, much as he wanted to.

"Then get to it."

He wished he could have unsaid those words. How was he supposed to 'restrain' Moxica while Chanca worked on him without harming him more? After a moment's thought, he did the only thing that he could imagine would work and knelt by the other man's head. Keeping an eye on Chanca, in case he thought what he was doing was a bad idea, he moved forward and at the same time carefully lifted up Moxica's upper body, cradling the younger man against him until his head rested against Columbus' chest. Staying away from his mangled right arm, afraid to make things worse by touching or jostling it in the wrong spot, he wrapped his left arm around Moxica's upper torso and laid his right hand across his forehead, pinning him securely in place.

Moxica didn't make a sound, though his face paled another fraction.

With a quick motion of his head, Chanca indicated for Brother Buyl to kneel beside him. "Put most of your weight on his thigh, there," he told him, pointing. "He'll try to jerk away when I start with the amputation. You have to keep him from moving while I work."

Moxica's eyes snapped open. His splinted left arm shot up, fingers digging into the fabric of Columbus' shirt. He didn't even seem to feel the added pain it must have caused him.

"No," he gasped. "Don't—Let me—"

Chanca shook his head. "The damage is severe, Don Adrián. Left like this, the wound will fester and likely kill you."

The injured man looked up at Columbus, his eyes pleading. His voice was barely above a whisper as he spoke. "I'm a dead man anyway... Let me at least die with a whole body."

With a look at the hand clenched around a fistful of his shirt so hard its knuckles were turning white, Columbus considered, then addressed Chanca. "Does it make a difference?"

A stupid man would never have become the royal surgeon, and Chanca knew exactly what fate awaited Moxica if he lived long enough. With a shrug, he reached for two long boards, placing them along either side of Moxica's leg and threading pieces of bandage beneath them so all he would still need to do was tie the splints in place.

"I still need you here," he told Brother Buyl, who obediently placed his hands where he was told, ready to lean on them, while Chanca folded up a piece of cloth and held it out in front of Moxica's face. "You can bite on this or you can scream, but don't bite on your tongue. It just stopped bleeding from when you did so during your fall and if you bite it off it'll be gone forever."

Moxica weakly shook his head against Columbus' hand.

"Suit yourself." Chanca moved downward, wrapping his hands tightly around Moxica's ankle. "Now!" he commanded.

Buyl leaned forward as Columbus tensed his muscles, holding the man in his arms steady as his body tried to buck. Moxica's scream broke off when his eyes rolled back in his head and he lost consciousness again, just in time for them to hear the ugly sound of bone sliding back through torn flesh.

Columbus felt his stomach revolt and swallowed quickly several times. He saw the monk pale.

Chanca never looked up. "If you have to throw up, just turn aside and do it on the floor," he said, apparently knowing exactly what kind of effect this would have on untried assistants. "Just don't get the mess on him and _don't you dare let go!_ "

The governor's stomach was made of sterner stuff than the monk's. He tried to ignore the stench of vomit that filled the air, his hand absently stroking the wet hair back out of Moxica's face.

  
  
Illustration by Rebekah


	7. ACTS OF GOD

"I … owe you an apology, Don Cristóbal," Brother Buyl said as they were leaving the building that served as their field hospital.

"Whatever for?" Columbus returned exhaustedly. All he wanted to do right now was fall into his bed and sleep for a day or two. That, of course wasn't quite possible. His bed had burned with the rest of his possessions. He'd fall asleep alright – on a cot in the barracks, most likely. Tomorrow, they could go about finding and building replacements for what they had lost. At least the building still stood, the fire no match for solid stone.

The monk looked at him, still paler than he had been, but looking better with every step that took them away from Moxica.

"I mistook you for … a man disregarding everything but his own desires," Buyl explained softly. "A man reverting to savagery to get his will. Disregarding all principles of Christianity and civilization, arbitrarily striking where anyone spoke out to uphold order." He blushed, obviously embarrassed. If by his previous thoughts or by his explanation, Columbus couldn't tell. "Back in there? You just proved yourself a better Christian and a fairer ruler than anyone else on this horrible island. Doing for him what you did in spite of what he did to you…"

In Columbus' mind, the words connected with something Utapan had told him earlier, and pieces clicked into place so hard that he stopped short.

Buyl turned around when he noticed that no one was walking beside him anymore. "Don Cristóbal?"

"Brother Buyl," Columbus said, his face, though still tired, lighting up with the light of inspiration. "Thank you. I believe you have just made me understand something." He shook himself, new energy flooding him as his mind worked to assimilate the new ideas, his thoughts racing along paths that were forming as he proceeded. "Call the men together. Tell them to assemble here in the square in twenty minutes. Every last one of them, even the prisoners. I want every man who's able to stand there. Never mind the rain, I want everyone to hear me."

The monk stared at him uncomprehendingly. He must have thought Columbus had gone mad for good now. He laughed at the thought. "Go on," he said. "I have an announcement or two to make."

About half an hour later – not as soon as he would have liked it, but it had taken some time to assemble everyone as he had demanded –, Columbus stood on a table to be seen by as many as possible, looking out over the crowd.

The men were restless, many of them unhappy that the captive mutineers were there as well, fingering swords and muskets uneasily and ready to act at the slightest sign of unrest. The slight drizzle that was still – or again - falling didn't help the mood any.

"Good men of Isabel," Columbus started, yelling to be heard over the mutterings and random sounds of shifting and shuffling of too many feet. Still in the same clothes as before, splattered with mud and stained with Moxica's blood, his shirt torn where it had been grabbed, he must have looked quite the mad prophet. Still, he had wanted to remind them that he, like them, had been in the fighting, that he had seen it, been a part of it, and that he wasn't speaking as an outsider.

"When we came to this island, we came to colonize, to build and to teach the natives, to turn them into good Christians, to establish a town that would prosper and that Spain could be proud of. We have lost sight of that, quarrelling among ourselves, working not towards a shared goal but to destroy each other. Instead of letting them see what it means to follow God, we have set the worst example that we could. All that they have learned from us is violence and more cruelty than they already possessed."

'You did the same to your God' was what Utapan had told him when he had been shocked to find the supervisors at the mine crucified and mutilated. The man had not even seemed to understand why they found the deed so very repulsive. He had understood their anger at the killing, but the sheer horror of finding them like that had escaped him. And how could it not? It was just about the only thing that they understood of what they had been taught about God and Christianity. Because everything else had been mostly empty words, with nothing tangible to attach them to, nothing in their experience of the Christians to support the concepts.

"It is time that we remedy that. Let us remember why we are here. Let us show everyone who has eyes to see what it means to repent, to do penance and to forgive. We have all made mistakes, and I will not be the one to judge whose mistake weighs heavier than the other's.

"It is time to start practicing what we preach. I offer pardon to any man who wishes to re-join me. Free passage back to Spain to the others. I will not keep anyone here who does not wish to stay. But I ask every man who chooses to stay to help me in this. To conquer these people and these islands, not by force, not by threats, not by bloodshed, but by setting examples of mercy, of love and forgiveness."

He could hear and feel his brothers shift uneasily, probably fearing a riot. The men had fallen silent, but his words were not greeted with any kind of applause. Suddenly, the whole idea no longer seemed as ingenious as it had at first. Dear God, he needed something now, some kind of sign, something—

There was a stirring in the crowd. A hand was raised to point, then another, and then more and more men were staring, pointing, focusing on something that Columbus couldn't see.

He turned, slowly, raising his eyes to the sky and managing by a bare margin not to gape as well. The cloud cover had broken open, revealing a patch of bright blue sky and sunlight, complete with a rainbow shooting down from the heavens.

Thank God for superstitious Spaniards! He couldn't have thought up a better sign if he had arranged for it himself. He stood in silence, bathing in the sunlight for a few moments.

"Will you join me?" he called out over the masses of assembled soldiers, miners, farmers, craftsmen and men of God.

This time, his words were answered with a cheer. He looked out over the crowd, nodding, a silent smile playing around his lips. He would have to show results soon enough to keep them onboard, but for the time being, they were his.

His eyes returned to the sky just in time to see the edge of the cloud move. He jumped down from his table, hitting the ground as the hole in the clouds closed up, swallowing sunlight and rainbow alike.

By the next morning, he hoped, as people talked and the story adjusted itself to what they wished to have seen, the sky would have closed up _because_ he had jumped down.

It should buy him time to get things done, as it had once before. He had to make better use of it than the last time, he thought. He could not count on having a convenient sign of divine favor like a turning wind or a ray of sun breaking through the clouds appear a third time. He needed to get things right this time around.

Bartolomeo looked at him, shaking his head. "Christoffa, you are…" he started in their native Genoese.

"… a lucky bastard," Columbus finished for him. "I know, my brother. I know."

 

*

 

Columbus sat at his desk, looking up from his writing and glancing out of the window. Something seemed not quite right outside, but he could not pinpoint it sufficiently to do anything about it.

A knock on the door made him turn around.

"Come in," he called.

The door opened, revealing Utapan. Columbus gestured to the only other chair in the room. They had cleaned up the mansion and refurnished it somewhat, but it would be a long time before it would be as richly equipped as before the fire. There were other priorities right now.

"What can I do for you?" he asked slowly, carefully shaping the still-unfamiliar sounds of the Indians' language in his mouth.

That had been another realization that had come to him when he had expected it the least. As he set free the captives from their raid on the village, starting his example of mercy and forgiveness right there after finishing his speech, while everyone was still enthusiastic about God's sign that he was doing the right thing, he noticed that the interpreter's words did little to change the confusion on their faces.

"I want to learn your language, Utapan," he had told the man that night. "The sooner the better. Let me know when we can start."

The announcement had been answered with surprise, but after the first stunned moment, a ghost of a smile had crossed Utapan's face. "We can start right now," he had said.

It was harder than he had expected at first. In addition to his native Genoese, he already spoke Latin, Castilian and Portuguese, but all of those were related to each other. Still, he made progress, and at least he could make use of previous experience: Languages were learned more easily if you were using them. Therefore, unless fast communication was of the essence, he used it as much as he could when he was alone with Utapan. The man seemed strangely pleased by it.

The officers and monks had been less pleased, especially when he had suggested that they follow his example. This time, his arguments were well prepared, though.

"Do you ever know what the interpreters say?" he asked. "Do you ever know if they relay your words truly? How much has been lost because they do not understand the full meaning of what they hear? It takes only one careless translator, one man mad at you for whatever reason, real or imagined, to give the wrong message to dozens, and pass it off as yours.

"If we know their language, we can talk with all of them, not just the few who have learned ours. We can make sure that they hear what we want them to hear – and at the same time, we take away their advantage of being able to talk among themselves in our presence without us being any the wiser about what they are saying unless they wish us to know."

Not all of them were convinced, but he was quite certain that those who were would find out soon enough that he was right.

"There is a… " after a moment's hesitation, Utapan used a word Columbus had not heard before, "coming. A storm," he clarified at the confused look, then switched to Spanish. "It will be a bad one. Worse than any you have experienced here before. These storms kill. I…"

Columbus waited, eventually prompting: "Go on?"

Utapan took a deep breath and fixed his eyes on a spot somewhere behind Columbus. "Not everyone wanted me to warn you. I have come in spite of it."

He nodded, considering for a moment. "You say these storms kill," he said, also speaking Spanish. This sounded like the kind of situation in which he should not rely on a language that he had only a very basic grasp of as yet. "Will our buildings survive it?"

The Indian gave a half-shrug. "The stone ones may," he said. "They do not sway in the lesser winds at all. The wood ones I do not think so."

"Very well," Columbus got up. "I'll have everyone take shelter in the stone ones then. Thank you."

Walking to the door, he half-turned towards his interpreter again. "The people in the villages around here. What will they do?"

"They will find places to wait out the storm," Utapan told him. "As they always do. Some will die, some will live."

He stepped out into the hallway, waiting for the shorter man to join him before he spoke again. "Go and tell them that they are welcome in the mansion and the church if they want to join us. It takes more than a storm to knock over a solid stone building." He hoped that that was no false bravado.

With a curt nod, Utapan ducked out of the door and into the street, setting off at that ground-eating trot the natives used to travel longer distances.

Columbus stopped the first servant he saw. "Secure the windows with all that you can find and call everyone you see inside. We have a storm coming, and it's not going to be a harmless one. Everyone is to take shelter in the finished stone buildings only. Pass on the word. We will stuff this mansion and the church full of as many people as we can fit into them. Turn no one away while there's still any room to be found, no matter if they're European or Indian."

Without giving the man a chance to object, he hurried on, stepping outside and running over to the church to repeat the news and the orders to the monks, telling them to ring the bells and call everyone inside. Anyone he saw on the way, he sent out quickly to collect everyone they could find for good measure.

By the time he came back outside, walking against a stream of men and women, both natives and colonists, the wind had picked up to the point where no one could have missed it.

He dashed through the streets, looking for anyone who might not have heard yet, helping to calm a horse and lead it, eyes still so wide with fear that they were showing the whites , into the church building without heeding the monks' protests.

"We can't afford to lose the horses," he told them, "and this is the only place big enough to bring them into. I'm sure God won't mind – they're His creatures as well."

It shut them up for the moment, and he was off again, joined by a few brave men.

Rain was falling now, and the wind had reached the point where it tore loose the first branches, whirling them around like strange missiles thrown by an unseen foe.

Drenched to the skin, Columbus and his men slid through the mansion's entrance door, slamming it shut behind them and barring it.

He looked around, panting heavily. Giacomo and Bartolomeo were efficiently organizing people, ordering blankets to be brought out and soup cooked as the storm rattled at the barred windows. The warning hadn't come a moment too soon.

Columbus saw Utapan crouching by a group of natives huddled in a corner. He nodded to him with a smile. ‘See what we can do if we take care of each other?’ his eyes said – or at least he hoped that they did.

He continued his tour of the building, stopping by each group to exchange a few words of reassurance and comfort, but careful not to lie to them.

Yes, it was quite possible that this storm would destroy their homes. If it did, they would work together to rebuild, in stone. Even if this kind of freak weather occurred only once every few years, this would be the first and last time that they lost structures to it. The important thing for the moment was that they had enough room to keep everyone safe. He told them to thank Utapan for the warning. He, Columbus, had only listened to it but would otherwise have been hit by the storm as unpreparedly as they.

The recovering injured had been brought over as well, sitting or lying on the floor of the dining hall, kept as comfortable as they could be made here.

As he let his gaze wander through the room, he realized that there was one face missing. He stopped one of the men tending to them with a hand to his arm. "Where's Moxica?"

The shocked look he received told him all he needed to know.

Moxica was exactly where he had been for the last ten days, in that small, barren back room, unable to run and take shelter, if he was even aware enough of his surroundings to realize that something dangerous was happening.

Excusing himself quickly, he returned to the entrance hall, wrestling the heavy bar from the door.

Giacomo appeared at his elbow, placing a firm hand on the wood.

"Now what do you think you're doing, brother?" he asked.

He shook his head, unwilling to answer in great detail. "Something I have to take care of," he said as he pushed aside the younger man. "Bar that door again behind me and no matter what happens, do not reopen it before that storm is over. I'll be fine." Or maybe not, but at least he'd not be sitting here inactive, only able to hope that when the storm passed, he wouldn't find a corpse in Moxica's room.

As he cracked open the door just enough to squeeze through and out into the raging storm, he heard protesting voices behind him. Giacomo said something in reply, but he paid no attention to it.

The air outside was thick with dust, in spite of the rain coming down in thick sheets. Lightning flashed, bathing the empty streets in an eerie light.

Keeping his arms up as some scant protection for his face and head, he fought his way along the walls of buildings, praying that he would not be hit by any of the pieces the wind was now whipping back and forth, playing with them as a child might with a ball. A very destructive child, that was, intent on smashing windows and doing the most damage possible.

After what seemed like an eternity, he reached his destination. The main room where the patients had been kept was chaos, beds upturned and torn apart, the uncovered windows no obstacle to the storm at all. He dove through the door into the back room, just fast enough to avoid whatever crashed loudly to the ground behind him in time with the door slamming shut.

Intended as a storage place, this room had no windows. The candles had long gone out, but while the walls, reinforced with stone because Chanca had liked the way it looked from the outside, held, the roof had been partially torn off, enabling him to see by the glaring illumination of the increasingly frequent bolts of lightning. Unbelievable as it seemed, this storm was still gaining in strength.

Moxica lay on a pallet on the floor, as he had ever since the day they had brought him in here. Columbus would have brought in a cot for him, but Chanca had vetoed that, telling him that they were too narrow for his purposes. He had ordered a number of sandbags to be brought in, arranging them along either side of Moxica's body to keep him from moving in his sleep or tossing in fever dreams.

As Chanca had predicted, the wounds caused by bone stabbing through flesh and skin had festered, causing a fever that Moxica had been fighting for days without once waking up. On nothing but thin broth and water with honey and herbs – the only things that they could get into him, spoon by spoon – , his once-slim body had grown downright gaunt.

Leaning against the wall, trying to catch his breath without choking on the rain, Columbus looked down at the unmoving figure. The blanket that had covered him had been blown off, exposing a body still covered in fading bruises. His right arm was tied close to this torso to immobilize a broken shoulder. His bandages were drenched, the stains on his arm and leg still unmistakable.

Just as he strained to see the rise and fall of Moxica's chest, indicating the man was still breathing, a heavy piece of wood crashed down from above, missing the injured man's head by inches.

He had to find something to use as a protective cover.

Back to the door he went, only to find that it would no longer budge. Whatever it was that had come down out there was blocking it squarely.

His eyes darted around the room. There was nothing in here but some pieces of fallen debris, too small to do him any good.

So this was it?

He had come here, just to watch Moxica die in this storm because he had no means to shield him against it?

That couldn't be the end.

Thoughts racing, he turned, once again scanning every inch of the room, wiping water out of his face and finally realizing that there was only one thing in reach that was big enough to shelter Moxica beneath.

Most of Moxica in any case.

He dropped down onto his knees, crawling through the room and climbing over the other man, thanking God for his much broader frame and above-average height that allowed him to impose himself somewhat efficiently between the much-leaner Moxica and the ferocity of the storm.

Carefully keeping his weight on his hands and knees on either side of the unconscious man, who was entirely oblivious to the threat to his life, he tucked in his head as far as he could to protect it and prayed.

He had no idea how much time passed, but it seemed like an eternity. His eyes were closed against the wind, his mind focused only on the heat radiating out from Moxica under him – the man felt like he was burning up – and on breathing in time with him.

At some point, something hard struck the base of his skull from behind, sending a shower of stars flickering in front of his eyes, followed by a surge of darkness that threatened to claim him.

He fought, knowing that if he lost consciousness, he would end up dropping on top of Moxica, probably aggravating his injuries, possibly stifling him by the time the storm was over and anyone found them in here.

The wind quieted eventually, the flashes of lightning visible even through his closed eyelids ceasing, the rain decreased to a drizzle, then nothing.

Realizing he no longer felt like he was lying on top of a furnace, Columbus opened his eyes in a near-panic, afraid to find a corpse under him after all, the risk he had taken entirely in vain. Instead, he found himself staring into Moxica's clear, dark eyes.

"Get off of me," Moxica snarled, his voice hoarse but with the unmistakable tone of arrogance that belonged to Moxica like that gorgeous dark hair that was now plastered wetly all over his face.

With a smile he didn't try to suppress, he obliged, taking a moment or two to carefully stretch his trembling arms and cramping legs.

"Thank you, Colón, for saving my life in this storm," he said when Moxica apparently had no intention of continuing the conversation. "You're welcome, Moxica, anytime."

He slowly walked over to the far wall and slid down it, coming to sit on the wet floor with his back to the wood and stone, his arms resting on his knees.

The room was strewn with debris, the lightening sky visible through the broken ceiling.

"The door is blocked, so you will have to put up with my presence until someone comes and starts to clean up around here."

  
  
Illustration by Rebekah


	8. DIFFERENT

  
  
Illustration by Rebekah

Moxica had been awake for long enough to realize the truth of Colón's words, though it did nothing to help him understand just why the other man had done it. He could have – should have – let that storm dispose of him, and he could have saved himself the trouble of the execution.

He did not know how much time had passed since the cliff, remembering only vague snatches of confused fever dreams and pain since then.

No, that was not quite true. He also remembered waking to a sea of pain, in a shattered body, and Colón coming unexpectedly to his help. He hadn’t been thinking clearly, lowering himself to beg with Colón of all people, and for what? The only reason the governor could conceivably have for having him nursed back to some semblance of health was so that he could have him executed, rather than giving him the satisfaction of ending his life as he chose.

And yet, for some reason he had lied about what had happened on the cliff.

It couldn’t have been that long. He still felt his injuries too badly for that, pain throbbing in his right arm and leg with each heartbeat.

The cell they had put him in this time around was not the room off the barracks. It was hard to tell from the condition it was in now after the storm, but it didn't seem like there'd been much in it to begin with.

Trying to get a better look around, he leaned on his left elbow to raise himself up a little, and gasped when a fresh wave of pain rolled over him, blossoming in parts of his body that had not made themselves known while he was lying still.

"You're supposed to be lying down and not move," Colón pointed out neutrally. "You're restrained like that for a reason."

Well, thank you, Colón, Moxica thought. I never would have noticed.

Silence lengthened between them while Moxica focused on breathing until the pain ebbed to where he could get his mind to consider his situation. Why was he even still alive? Why hadn't Colón used the opportunity to get rid of him? All he would have had to do was leave him at the foot of that cliff. Why bring him back and fetch Chanca of all people?

"Why did you risk your life to save mine?" he asked eventually. "You can't be that eager to get to publicly execute me."

"I'm not going to execute you." The other man sounded tired. He hadn’t moved from where he was sitting and was still watching him.

Moxica tried to shrug but thought better of it quickly. "Give the order to do it, then. It makes no difference to me either way. The result will be just the same on my end."

"No more killing."

The man didn't understand the first thing about running an expedition, let alone a colony.

"Colón," Moxica explained, a note of strained patience in his voice. "You can't execute the rebels and leave the ring leader alive." Besides, he had no wish to become… what? Colón's broken pet prisoner to show off as a bad example?

"I have not had anyone killed. As a matter of fact, everyone who survived the fighting is free now. I gave them a choice to rejoin me or leave on the next outbound ship."

Now, that was certainly unexpected. "What did they choose?"

"Most chose me." Something told Moxica that there was more to it than Colón was letting on right now. "I'm pretty sure two or three will leave, your friend Guevara among them. A couple haven't announced their decision yet."

The Spaniard stared into the sky exposed by the missing roof, trying to process the information. Yes, Guevara would. He hated Colón and all that he did without even seeming to need a reason. "What about me?"

Colón audibly shifted his weight against the wall. "You have the same choice. Stay and accept my rule, or leave on the first ship back home once Chanca declares you fit to travel."

"Why would I choose you?" Intended as a challenge, the words came out sounding curious, almost eager instead. Hopefully Colón hadn't noticed.

By the long, thoughtful look he gave him, though, he had.

"Because there are great things waiting to happen here," he answered slowly. "Wonderful things to be achieved by working together, not against each other. Because I think that I have finally found a way to win over the natives. No, not with the whip," he added quickly when he noticed Moxica's facial expression shift decidedly towards the smug. "I'd like you at my side, Moxica, but I do not have the time or the leisure to argue my decisions with you. I am running this place as I see fit. If I need to, I will personally put you on the next ship to Spain."

"You tried to do that once before," Moxica pointed out. "We know how that ended."

"Yes," Colón said coldly. "With you tearing up my shirt so I'd command Chanca to keep his knife out of your leg."

He didn’t remember the part where he’d torn Colón’s shirt.

Silence descended again.

Feeling the need to fill it, Moxica said aloud what he had only now recognized as the truth himself.

"I needed you to hate me." He took a shuddering breath and, when Colón said nothing in response, went on. "As long as you hated me, I could at least be certain that you didn’t forget who I was. I couldn't have borne being the object of … a commoner's contempt, no better to him than a dog that's in his way."

That brought a reaction, as Colón straightened and scowled at him. "I have never felt contempt for you," he replied slowly. "I always dreamed that once, at least one single time, you would validate my decisions and give them the power I needed to have with the nobles. They've always been your men, not mine."

He didn't reply to that at once, turning over the words in his mind and trying to reconcile them with the man he had seen Colón as.

This time, the other man continued after a minute or two.

"Moxica…"

His lips twitched into a grimace. "My name is Moxica, Colón," he pointed out. Mo-xi-ca, not 'Moksica' or any of the other things that you keep saying. Moxica. It's not that hard. You make the sound at the back of your—" He broke off. "For heaven's sake, just call me Adrián.

The governor ignored that. "Will you at least think about what I said?"

Suddenly feeling irritated, Moxica closed his eyes and turned his head to face the other way. "Stop making such a nuisance of yourself," he muttered. "I'm in pain and I want to sleep. We can continue this later."

It was true. The longer he was awake, the harder it became to ignore the aches in his body, the painful throbbing of his pulse in wounds that had just barely started to mend and the itch that announced that other fractures were farther along the path to healing.

A vague sound was the only reaction he got from Colón, and he assumed that his message had gotten across. At least he wasn't trying to continue the conversation.

Unfortunately, the lack of something to occupy his mind made the pain all the harder to ignore.

Maybe he should have let Chanca cut off his leg after all. Whatever was wrong with it? It burned like fire, far worse than it should have.

He turned back towards the other man, finding that he had leaned forward to lay his head on his crossed arms, the rest of his body still in almost the same position as before.

"Colón, once they—"

" _Christoffa_ ," Colón cut him off without raising his head. "If you want me to call you Adrián, you have to call me Christoffa. Or Cristóbal, at least."

Moxica smiled, despite himself. "I can wrap my tongue around a foreign name, unlike some among us," he said. "Once they get around to letting you out of here, send the men to me."

"Send the men to you?" the other man repeated. The confusion in his voice was mirrored on his face as he finally lifted his head to look back at Moxica.

"Yes. Those you think still follow me. Those you think will take the ride home, most of all. I'll have a word with them. Or well," he amended quickly. "Maybe not Guevara. Guevara's not really one of my men anyway. He tags along, or used to, because my family's more powerful than his, but in the end, he does what he wants without heeding anyone's word. He's probably better gotten rid of."

As a matter of fact, he wouldn't trust Guevara not to turn on him as well if he thought that he had something to gain from it.

"Why?" Colón said warily. "How do I know that you won't do your best to turn them against me?"

Moxica couldn't help a smirk. "You don't," he admitted. "Colón, if you want me to work with you, you'll have to trust me."

After a moment that drew on until he almost thought that Colón was going to ignore his words, the answer came in a single word, drawn out long and thoughtfully. "Agreed."

"Just 'agreed'?" he asked with an amused undertone.

"No," the Genoese said. "Not 'just' agreed. But I will give it a try and see what comes of it. Maybe we'll be able to work things out between the two of us after all."

"Maybe," Moxica agreed. "Oh, and Christoffa?"

He interpreted the other man's questioningly raised eyebrows as a request to go on.

"You better return some of the money you seized from me after the tribunal. I think I owe you a shirt."


	9. DEVIL'S DUE

  
  
Illustration by Rebekah

Moxica stood by the window of the guest room in the governor's mansion, leaning heavily on the window sill. Colón had ordered him brought to this room the day Chanca agreed that he could be moved that far.

Between the governor's servants and his own, the tediously slow road to recovery had been a little more bearable.

The street below was busy, as always. The storm and Colón's offer of shelter had marked a turning point in the relationship between the different groups. Enough of the Europeans understood that they would have had far more casualties than the few caught by the storm while out hunting in the forest if they had not been warned. In return, the natives had for the first time experienced a distinct benefit from working with those they had very nearly come to view as a deadly enemy. Yes, they could be of mutual benefit to each other, and everyone involved could profit from it.

A knock on the door made him turn, careful to keep his weight on his left foot as he did so.

"Come in."

The door opened and Colón's face appeared, followed by the rest of his body. He stood in the door frame, leaning his arms against it at head height.

"Don't you think you've been holed up in here long enough?" he asked.

Moxica shrugged. He had ventured out a few times since he had been allowed out of bed.

All but two of those times had been in order to attend church with the governor and his brothers.

Out of those other two, the first had been his attempt to participate in one of the few actual pleasures that the city of Isabel offered at this time:

A bathhouse was one of the most recent additions to Isabel, welcomed by the men to the point that, according to the governor, no one had even complained about the effort it took to build it. Like all the buildings that had gone up since the storm, it was solid stone, well anchored in the ground. This particular building originally hadn't been scheduled to be built for a long time, but somewhere along the way, Colón had learned that it paid off to let the men enjoy the fruits of their labor from time to time. It raised morale and spirits to make them work for something that brought instant gratification, not a promise for some remote and undefined time in the future.

Feeling the desperate wish to immerse his body in a large tub of hot water after what felt like an eternity spent in bed, he had commandeered a servant and, clinging to his arm like an invalid, made his slow and painful way over, his right foot dragging because the leg would not obey him as it should.

He had been drenched in sweat by the time he arrived, trembling from pain and exhaustion, his shirt sticking to his thin body. There was hardly any enjoyment in the bath, since he nodded off as soon as he allowed himself to relax. By the time he woke up again, the water was cold and he was freezing. At least the servant had had the sense to go for a clean, dry change of clothes for him.

Unhappy as he had been at the prospect of having to walk back the same way he had come, under the eyes of curious onlookers of all the present nations, he had still refused to be carried when someone suggested it, put on a stony expression to betray as little pain as possible and struggled on under his own power, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead, not looking right or left to avoid the pitying looks of any passers-by.

It had taught him one thing: Stick to the house until you're sufficiently steady on your feet again.

He spent hours every day just measuring his bedroom with his steps, happy each time he needed one less to get from the door to the window or back. He walked up and down the length of the hallway, trying not to have to lean against the wall to avoid falling, forcing himself to go a little farther every day, to spend a few more minutes on his feet.

Avoiding the stares and the pity of random strangers, the whispers of "Look, there's Moxica. – He tried to rebel against Colón. – The governor forgave him, but God punished him. – Look at the pitiful creature he's become, not so proud a nobleman anymore now, is he?", was a good incentive to stay indoors.

The fact that all the bedrooms in the mansion, including the guest room he had been given, were upstairs, was another. Colón and his brothers hadn't done that out of spite. There simply was no room on the ground floor that didn’t already serve a specific purpose and was furnished and used accordingly.

For weeks he felt all but ready to go back to bed whenever he had finally managed to get downstairs. It took him forever to climb down and even longer to climb back up. Either way, he had to take them one step at a time, hanging on to the handrail as if his life depended on it, moving in a way that ensured that his right leg had to bend as little as possible. The other one wasn't perfect yet either, but at least it did support his weight reliably and he could feel it improve.

Once, Colón had been on the way down those stairs when he was going up, and a moment of carelessness and lack of attention ended up with him catching his foot on the edge of a stair, pitching forward and only being kept from falling by the large hand that was suddenly clamped to his upper arm.

"It's alright," he had tried to joke with a forced smile. "I make a point of falling only up the stairs, not down. It's not as far to the ground."

Colón had seen right through the bravado, wordlessly reversing his direction and extending a strong arm for extra support. Once at the top, he had nodded to him and left to go about whatever errand he had been on, refraining from further embarrassing him by commenting on the situation.

The second time Moxica had left the mansion on his own was shortly after a ship had arrived, carrying new colonists and – as those ships now did with increasing frequency – merchandise. The square between the church and the mansion filled up with vendors then, many of which would return on the same ship that had brought them, carrying coin from the colonists and soldiers, as well as various new world objects to sell for high profit as exotic goods back at home.

He had seen them from his window and, overcome by a sudden urge to complete his wardrobe again, forced himself downstairs and outside, leaning heavily on the stick Chanca had organized for him and which he refused to use inside the mansion.

The first morning he had woken up in the governor's mansion, he had found his belt with sword and dagger sheath, complete with the blades, hanging from a peg in the wall, his fencing gloves and spurs clearly in sight on a low cabinet.

Colón must have saved those items for him when they had brought him back from the cliff.

His favorite striped wool-and-leather jacket, however, had died under Chanca's knife, cut from his body without bothering to open it along the seams so it could have been repaired. He didn’t blame the man, of course. There had been more pressing concerns than preserving clothes at the time. His _armitas_ , the close-fitting leggings that were attached to a belt at the top and laced along the outside of his legs, the thighs decorated with metal studs that were not merely decorative but also offered some marginal protection against dangerous sword-cuts to that vulnerable area of the body when fencing from the saddle, had gone the same way, cut open at the lacing but torn beyond repair by the splintered bone that had forced its way through them as well as muscle and skin.

Most of his other possessions had been seized by Colón when he had sentenced him the first time around and now silently brought to his room, including his second pair of good boots and a purse that held all the coin he had lost to Colón that day. He was sure of the sum because he had counted it.

Crippled though he might be for the time being – not for life, he prayed, please don't let this be for life –, he was still Adrián de Moxica, and he had a name to represent. He had no desire to go about in his shirtsleeves, and not having the familiar weight of the _armitas_ on him made him feel half naked.

So, given the opportunity, he went to stock up his wardrobe.

He found a booth offering clothing of good Spanish manufacture and stuck with black again by default. Black was his color after all, though the Moxica sable and argent stripes might need to wait until he could have a piece custom-made for himself.

The merchant looked at him with unconcealed curiosity, indicating his obvious impairment. "Indians?" he asked.

Moxica gave him his best arrogant smile in response. "No, criminals."

It wasn't even a lie. He didn't need to tell the man that he had been the main criminal involved at the time.

Seeing pity turn to admiration felt good. So being injured at the hands of natives was pitiable at best, receiving the same injury from his own countrymen, however, was indicative of bravery. Good to know.

He picked a fine wool jacket with lace-on sleeves, felted to provide protection against the frequent rains and richly decorated with triangular steel rivets polished to shine in a silver gloss up the sleeves and down the back. For the _armitas_ , he stuck as close to his old ones as he could. They had proven their worth.

Satisfied with his purchases, he returned home – To the governor's mansion, more precisely, but it was the only home he had at the moment. His own villa had been lost to the storm, and he had not even started to think about arranging to have it rebuilt. He had no idea how long it would be before he’d have overstayed his welcome with the Colón brothers, but he thought he was pretty safe there while Christoffa still dropped by his room every night to run ideas by him and discuss plans.

The next problem had presented itself when he’d tried to dress the next morning: actually putting those leggings on had become harder than he remembered. He cursed under his breath when he realized that this was yet another thing that had suddenly turned from an everyday task he never even thought about into an almost insurmountable obstacle.

He couldn’t thread in and tie the laces while standing up because he couldn’t balance while bent over to work near his ankles long enough yet. He did up the left leg sitting on his bed, then discovered that his knee refusing to bend as it should prevented him from doing the same on the other side. With his leg stretched out straight before him, he couldn't twitch the fabric into place properly, ending up with him either unable to reach the eyelets at all because they were caught under the leg, folds of his breeches stuck beneath the outer leggings, or seams pulled into all the wrong places. In the two latter cases he’d be risking being rubbed raw if he actually wore the _armitas_ that way.

Eventually, he realized that he had three options. One was not to wear the _armitas_ to begin with. The second was to call for a servant to help him dress.

He gritted his teeth against the pain and proceeded with option three: grabbing his leg firmly with both hands and forcing the offending joint to bend until he could put his foot down on the bed, then working as fast as he could to finish before the position became unbearable.

The whole procedure had taken forever, but at least he was properly dressed again and felt a little more like himself for it. The next day, he skipped everything up to where he had decided to try approach number three right away. It still took a lot longer than he would have liked, though.

That had been a while ago, and he had not had incentive enough to be out of the manor since – that was, until Colón had appeared in his doorway and as much as told him to get his ass outside, even if he hadn't used those precise words.

"Is there anything you need me to do?" he asked, hoping that that was not the answer he had expected and that it'd at least make the other man a little uncomfortable.

Instead, he got a lopsided grin in return as Colón walked over to him and nodded toward the window. "There's someone waiting for you outside."

Moxica turned again, staring when he saw two servants in the square below, holding the bridles of Colón's heavy grey stallion and his own daintier black.

He had avoided thinking of his horse. Was he able to ride that stallion as he deserved to be ridden yet? He wasn't sure.

Would he ever be again?

Same answer.

But the horse was already saddled, Colón was waiting for him and refusing to try would have bordered on cowardice.

Putting on the cockiest smile he could muster, he indicated the direction of the door with a jerk of his head. "Let's go."

He needed no further preparation. He was already wearing his gloves – he almost always did, these days. Gloved hands were far less likely to be torn bloody when hastily grabbing at something to prevent oneself from falling. Spurs were out of the question until he knew for sure that he was able to use them well enough not to hurt his horse.

That was just as well, because he might have lost his nerve if he'd had to take time to prepare.

Colón walked beside him as he limped down the corridor, keeping himself at hand for Moxica to take his arm once they reached the stairs without overtly offering it.

Moxica ignored it.

When they got up close, he was relieved to see that his horse looked like he’d been well cared for during their long separation. The stallion remembered his master, greeting him with enthusiasm. The way he kept eying Colón's pockets indicated who had been seeing to the horse’s care.

The experiment almost ended before it could actually begin.

Just as he was about to admit defeat, knowing that he would be unable to balance on his right foot long enough to put the left into the stirrup and mount, or to bend his right knee enough to get his right foot into the stirrup if he tried to mount from the off side – or at least not without causing himself enough discomfort to render going for a ride a lot less desirable –, Colón reached out to steady him unasked.

With a grunt that might have been a curt thank you, he pulled himself up, somehow managing to swing his foot over the horse's back without even touching the helpful hand that imposed itself between the horse's croup and his boot.

Once mounted, he felt more 'right' than he had in months. He took up the reins and tensed his muscles, causing his horse to walk forward with a spring in his step as he guided it once around the square before rejoining Colón, now also mounted and waiting for him.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

The older man shrugged. "I thought you might like to see how Isabel has changed in the meantime," he suggested. "Apart from the part that you can see from our windows. I have a few construction sites to inspect, too."

As Moxica nodded, Colón added with a sly grin, "Of course we could also go for a quick canter down the beach first. The horses look like they might like to stretch their legs a bit."

"Let's do that." Moxica wheeled his horse in place to face in the direction of the sea and urged it into a slow trot, happy to see that he could control his mount almost as well as ever. It gave him some new hope for his future.

As they reached the edge of the fortified settlement, a man hailed them, getting them to stop for a moment. He walked right up to Colón.

"Governor," he said. "I was just looking for you. We have a problem at one of the construction sites…"

The man on the grey horse looked apologetically at Moxica, who merely shrugged. "You go inspect your construction site," he said. "I'll take a detour along the beach and join you in a bit."

Without waiting for Colón's nod, he rode on, letting his horse pick up speed as he left the town until before long, they were flying down the sandy beach at a full gallop. He refrained from trying any of the fancier footwork right on his first day back in the saddle, just enjoying his reunion with his loyal animal instead.

He turned back sooner than he would have liked, well aware that he'd be saddle-sore tomorrow if he overdid things now.

Returning to Isabel, he let his horse fall into a calm walk, allowing the tide in the streets carry them along as he looked for Colón.

Eventually he found him. He had dismounted and was engaged in a heated discussion with one of the other nobles.

Not a member of Moxica's original group of mutineers, he watched the approaching rider without interrupting his tirade, his dark look brightening up a little at the sight of a fellow nobleman. From what Moxica could gather from the continuing conversation, the man felt his job was to oversee construction, not actually help unload stones.

He reined in his horse right next to the two men and looked down at them.

"I thought it was agreed that everyone had to help with the work," he drawled when the other noble looked at him with an expression that suggested he expected support.

That was the last thing he would give the man right now. When he had agreed to join Colón's side, he had done it for good, not to return to his old rebellious ways at the first opportunity. No matter what the governor said, he was determined to support it.

"Easy for you to say, Moxica," the other noble snarled at him. "I don't see him trying to make _you_ build a house."

"True," Moxica said. "That's because he doesn't have to."

Time to practice what we preach, he thought grimly. Ignoring all the many reasons not to do this that shot through his mind, he slid his feet from the stirrups and dismounted, holding on to the saddle to steady himself as he hit the ground. He refused to think about how he would get back into that saddle later.

With a silent prayer of thanks that the soil had already been trampled flat and solid around here, he walked over to the ox-cart waiting to be unloaded, forcing himself to the briskest pace that he was capable of.

The blocks had already been roughly cut to size in the quarry. He would probably be able to wrestle most of the ones that he could reach from the ground off of the cart and stack them if he didn't have to actually carry them anywhere.

Since the most pressing matter at the moment seemed to be unloading the cart so it could return for more, he figured that that would be enough.

"Christoffa, are you coming?" he asked over his shoulder as he reached for the first block of stone. "This cart won't unload itself."

 

*

 

Moxica dropped onto his bed, not even bothering to try and remove his boots.

It had seemed like such a good idea at first, and it certainly had gotten the other noble to help, but right now he was deeply, painfully regretting every second of his involvement in it.

Except for the grateful look Colón had given him when they had returned; the silent thank you with which he had left him had been absolutely worth all the discomfort that he was in now.

Nevertheless, he didn't think he had the strength to get up again today.

On his way back up here, the stairs had dragged on and on worse than they had ever since the very first days that he had ventured downstairs.

It wasn't just that his leg throbbed as if he had tried to run a race on it. His soft fencing gloves had proven to be unsuitable for handling rough stone, leaving his hands blistered and scraped. He was exhausted, his whole body feeling sore and already hinting at exactly how stiff it would be come morning.

He also feared that he had torn something in his shoulder again, not while helping with the work but afterwards, when he had stubbornly tried to drag himself back into his saddle without help, which must have been the worst idea that he had had in a long time.

With his left arm thrown up over his eyes to block out the light that was still coming in through the window – how could it be so blasted early when he was feeling exhausted enough for it to be the middle of the night? -, he remained sprawled on the bed without moving until interrupted by another knock on the door.

At first, he ignored it, but the knock returned with more insistence, accompanied by a voice that he was well familiar with.

"Adrián, it's me. May I come in?"

He sighed and, still without moving from his position, gave Colón permission to enter.

The door opened with the slightest of creaks and footsteps approached, stopping right beside the bed.

Moxica imagined that Colón was looking down at him, but he was still unwilling to uncover his eyes and admit that it was much too early to sleep or otherwise spend the rest of the day in bed if you weren't doing so on doctor's orders.

What would he see if he did? Would the other man be frowning down at him, or still be thankful for the earlier help? Did he appreciate his willingness to hurt himself for the sake of proving Colón's point, or did he think him stupid for taking the risk of aggravating his condition?

Those answers were among a lot of things he didn't want to know right now. On the other hand…

The arm moved down slowly and Moxica blinked into the light until the other man's face came into focus.

Colón was smiling, but there was a hint of concern in his blue eyes.

"Are you alright?" he asked softly.

Moxica forced himself to return that smile. "Yes," he lied. "Just exhausted, that’s all. It was a long day, for all that it's not even finished yet."

Colón was holding out a jar to him. "I brought you something. I saw your hands earlier. Dab this on them – it helps."

Suppressing a groan, Moxica sat up on the bed to do as he was told. The ache in his hands was merely background noise behind the other, more acute pains all over his body, but that might very well change once he had to do something like handle cutlery.

He winced as he jostled his shoulder in the movement, his left hand flying up to the spot where pain flared.

Colón's expression shifted into one of real concern. "Did you injure your shoulder again?" He had heard Chanca warn that even if it felt fine again now, that shoulder would take a long time to be completely restored.

"Just strained a muscle remounting," Moxica claimed, hoping that that was exactly what had happened. "You know how annoying that kind of thing can be. What is in this?"

"Some herbal concoction Utapan's people make. It's surprisingly effective." Then he turned and sat sideways in the spot that Moxica's upper body had just cleared, his right foot firmly on the floor, left leg bent at the knee and flat on the bed, so that his foot just cleared the mattress.

Moxica twisted around to see what he was doing.

Colón's hand was tugging gently at the dusty jacket. "Take this off," he suggested.

Eyebrows raised questioningly, Moxica pulled his left arm out of the sleeve, then eased the jacket down the right one before dropping it carelessly on the floor.

Colón brushed Moxica's hair to the left and forward over his shoulder to keep it out of the way, then placed his large hands on the offending shoulder, outside the sweat-soaked silk of his thin shirt, probing ever so gently.

"I don't think you need Chanca for this," he declared eventually. "Unless you want to make sure, in which case I'll call for him."

The younger man shook his head. Colón's cursory examination had not caused him any additional pain, and if his recent injuries had taught him anything, then it was that fingers poking at something bad were extremely painful.

He busied himself carefully spreading the salve on his abused palms. Colón was right. He could feel almost instantly that this was helping.

The comforting touch of Colón's large hand disappeared, leaving behind a spot that felt cooler than the surrounding area.

He just managed to suppress a reaction. He didn't need Colón to know how much he craved this touch.

Moments later, the hands returned, sliding in under his shirt from below this time and coming to rest right on his skin before rough, callused fingers started carefully rubbing knots and cramps from too-tense muscles.

A shuddering sigh of contentment escaped his lips. Colón apparently misunderstood, because his hands stilled.

"Don't stop," Moxica whispered, as if afraid that he might shatter the moment if he spoke too loudly. "Feels so good."

Colón took up his self-appointed task again, working patiently until muscles relaxed and aches eased.

They remained sitting there as they were for a while afterwards, Moxica leaning back against the larger man's stalwart body, soaking up the body heat radiating out from him.

The other man in turn leaned forward, deepening the contact between them, bringing his face closer until Moxica could feel Colón's coarse hair brush against his cheek.

"Thank you, Adrián," he said, every nuance of his voice reflecting that he really, truly meant it. "You really saved the day today."

Moxica forced a casual tone into his voice as he said his _de nada_. At this moment, it really was nothing. If his earlier efforts had brought him this moment between the two of them, then every moment of pain that he had to pay for it would be well worth it.

They broke apart eventually when they heard Nima call everyone to the table for dinner.

"I'll bring you something upstairs," Colón promised.

Just about to thank him, Moxica reconsidered at the last moment. "Better go to that closet and toss me a fresh shirt instead. I'm coming with you." He followed up on his words by teasing the stained one he still wore over his head. "I've had far too many meals in this bed already."

To Colón's credit, he didn't argue the point, instead merely doing as he was told. Moxica glanced down at himself. His pants and _armitas_ were, like his boots, dusty, but they'd have to do. The meal would likely be cold by the time he had changed completely.

He let the fresh shirt hang loosely instead of stuffing it into his pants, and slowly got to his feet, smiling at the man waiting for him by the door and stepping gingerly towards him while making sure that his bad leg would actually still support his weight.

He held out one hand. "Your arm, Christoffa." His voice remained carefully neutral. "I have no intention of getting down those horrible stairs of yours head first."


	10. DEPARTURE

  
  
Illustration by Rebekah

All four of them were standing bent over a map table together, trying to figure out the best route for a road they were planning to connect Isabel with the nearest village, making it easier to travel back and forth with carts and pack animals.

The natives had finally taken to trading with them at a scale that contributed greatly to filling the holds of the ships that returned to Spain.

Moxica had one hand resting easily on the hilt of his sword. One day, he had watched Colón and one of the officers at a friendly spar with blunted weapons, and commented on their moves at the end.

Before he’d known what was happening, Colón had tossed a practice sword his way. His hand caught it by reflex.

With a vaguely uncertain look, he stepped forward. "Go easy on me, though," he said. "I'm still a recovering invalid."

Colón laughed. "I'm still a common-born upstart, so we should be well matched."

They weren't really, but they’d kept at it, day after day after day, until they were and Moxica had felt that he had finally earned the right to buckle on his sword belt again.

He would always keep a limp, as his knee would never bend as far or as easily as it used to, but it no longer hindered him much. On a good day and with a slightly raised heel on his boot to make up for the acquired shortening of his leg, it was hardly noticeable to anyone that wasn’t looking for it, as long as he didn't try to run. Chanca said that considering how close the fracture had been to the joint, it had healed much better than could be expected. In other words: the former royal physician was deeply impressed with his own work.

Moxica couldn't quite follow there. After all, it had been _him_ , not Chanca, who had struggled on through the painful weeks and months of regaining his strength and mobility.

The door opened, admitting a guest in richly embroidered robes, with a heavy gold chain around his neck. As they turned to look at him, he removed his cap to reveal his bald head.

"Don Francisco de Bobadilla," he introduced himself, speaking right over the clerk who was trying to apologize for the interruption.

He looked over all four of the men, his eyes lingering longest – and with the most surprise – on Moxica. So for some reason, this was not what he had expected.

"Yes, I remember," Colón allowed, no more thrilled to see Bobadilla than Bobadilla was to see him, as so often in his shirtsleeves, ready to get straight to work if he needed to.

Somewhere along the line, Colón had turned into a ruler to be reckoned with, maintaining a good balance between getting vital things done and arranging for the small amenities that kept his people happy and willing to work on things that brought little or no instant gratification. He had now made it a habit to prowl the city, talking to people, giving them the feeling that he was getting to know them, stopping here or there to lend a hand – even if it was only a minute spent in one place, one sack of grain hoisted onto a cart, one stone block wrestled into place together with a mason, as long as people saw that the governor did not consider their work to be beneath himself, they felt that they had much less reason to complain.

Bobadilla gave a curt nod to Moxica, then returned his cold gaze to Colón as he ordered his own clerk forward by a wave of his hand. "My letters of appointment."

Colón turned the scroll over in his hand, not showing any sign that he was going to open it.

Patience not being one of his strong suits, Bobadilla came forward. "I am the new Viceroy of the Indies," he declared.

Just having been effectively relieved of his post, Colón showed surprisingly little emotion.

"Congratulations," he said. "Then I am free to search for the mainland?"

Bobadilla's expression acquired another level of haughtiness. That was astonishing, Moxica thought. He had really thought that the man had already reached the upper limit of arrogance that a single person could hope to achieve. "The mainland was discovered weeks ago," he announced. "By another Italian."

"Amerigo Vespucci, Excellency", his clerk filled in helpfully.

Bartolomeo and Giacomo exchanged a meaningful look, aware that one of their brother's big dreams had just been shattered.

He held himself well, though. "How far?"

"I'm not a seaman, but I heard it's no more than a week at sea."

So close then.

"I hope you are not too disappointed?"

Colón shook his head. "How could I be?" he asked, though to Moxica it was quite obvious that he was. "The mainland has been found. Exactly as I said it would." He was keeping up a good façade, but he had so wanted to be the first one to set foot on the continent.

"I'm afraid that is not the worst of the news," Bobadilla went on.

Filled with a sudden sense of dread, Moxica stepped back from the table.

Moments later, Bobadilla's guards had arrested the Colón brothers, leading them away in chains.

Cristóbal looked back once, just before he stepped through the door, the pain and betrayal in his eyes hitting Moxica with a force that was almost physical.

Did he think he was using the first chance he got to abandon him?

It didn't matter, couldn't matter right now. He knew enough about Bobadilla to know that he was not in a position to achieve anything here and now.

He nodded to the bald man as soon as the door had closed. "Excellency," he said sweetly. "I will clear my quarters. You will probably need them for your own men. The records are in order and the supervisors in charge informed of the plans for the next few weeks. I am certain that you will find your way around here quickly. Now if you'll excuse me? I have a ship to catch."

Without waiting for the new Viceroy's leave, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room, cloaked in his nobleman's arrogance. Two could play this game. The orders to arrest the Colóns had come from Spain. They would have to be dealt with in Spain.

Stopping by Nima and the other servants for a moment, Moxica appraised them of the situation, leaving some short instructions and pieces of advice. Bobadilla would have to work hard if he wanted to enjoy his new post.

*

Moxica walked down the narrow aisle that connected the cells in the prison where they had incarcerated the brothers after dragging them off the ship, his cane clicking softly on the stone flags of the floor.

If anyone had noticed that he had not needed or used one on the ship, or for the first few days after they had reached land, he would simply explain that the difference in climate was causing his injuries to flare up painfully.

It had the added benefit of being a practical thing to establish, since he had no intention to stay in Spain permanently, for all that his family was already parading potential wives before him. He had no shortage of women willing to please a man returned from adventures as dangerous as his, he found. He had even taken a couple up on their offers, but found the experience not quite as gratifying as he had hoped.

It was like being fed a feast of prime chicken when you were actually craving venison.

The real reason for the cane was a different one entirely, of course. It was also the reason for which he was playing up the limp in general, wearing flat boots to accentuate it and making an effort to walk unevenly that was starting to cause an ache in places that had hardly been injured.

He stopped to the side of Cristóbal's cell and handed one of the rolled-up scrolls tucked into his belt to the guard, who promptly opened it and browsed the contents, surprise clear on his face.

Moxica indicated the door with a jerk of his head. "Unlock," he commanded.

"It's already unlocked," the guard said. "He has visitors."

His eyes widening, afraid of what he might see, he pushed at the door with his hand, swinging it open to reveal a dirty Colón tightly embracing a young man while another looked on.

Moxica really hoped he wasn't getting too much grime on that shirt and jacket. Even from behind he could appreciate the quality of the brocade.

"Cristóbal," he said, using the Spanish version of Colón's first name like everyone at court.

The man spun to look at him, staring at the nobleman in his pristine white and black outfit, a mix of warring emotions showing on his face before settling into one of half-concern, half-weariness as his eyes rested on the absence of a sword at Moxica's hip and the cane in his hand. Colón had aged considerably in the last eight weeks.

"What happened to you?" he asked.

Moxica shrugged off the question. "Later," he said softly. "We have more pressing things to do right now. I've just come from the Queen – with whom you have an audience today, and I can assure you that you do not want to appear there looking like you had just crawled out of the gutter. Or reeking of an underground cell. Excuse me, my friend, but the stink of this place is not fit for a royal nose."

He held open the door and made a quick beckoning motion. "What are you waiting for? Come on. Oh." He picked out another roll of parchment and tossed it at Colón, who caught it, staring at it as if he did not quite know what to do with it. "Your pardon. You can collect your reinstatement in person, but I needed these to make sure I'd get the three of you out of this god-forsaken hole. Though it appears that you have acquired more company already."

"My sons," Colón said, indicating first one and then the other. "Diego and Fernando. They have just come to tell me that they are intervening on my behalf."

Moxica gave a polite bow in the direction of either young man. "So nice to finally meet you. I have heard a lot about you." He trained his eyes on the older man again. "Cristóbal, are you coming or not? The Queen is waiting, and while I have a bit less experience with queens than you do, I have heard that waiting is not among their favorite pastimes, so can we get moving?"

Uncertain of this sudden change in his general fate and his immediate future, Colón walked to the door, his chains jingling. The guard bent to unlock them, while another was just straightening up from performing the same service for his brothers, kept in adjacent cells until just now. Both of them looked at Moxica with unconcealed surprise.

"What--?" Giacomo started to say, the direction of his eyes stating clearly what he was referring to.

"Not now," Moxica cut him off. "Come on, we don't have any time to waste if you are to be presentable in time." He started walking back past the cells towards the wider entrance area, listening for the hurried footsteps of the men following him.

"What's going on here?" Cristóbal wanted to know when he caught up with him.

Moxica did not slow his steps. "It appears that our 'friend' Guevara finally managed to be heard by the royal council. He found a few men to back up some of his more outrageous claims and accused you of things that the queen could not ignore. Among them your attempt to murder a Spanish nobleman – that would be me. Throw in Sanchez and his friend Bobadilla, and you were in a royal mess."

"I noticed," Colón stated sarcastically. "What did you do?"

"I finally got called to testify against you as they were trying to reach a final decision on what to do with you." Moxica half-turned, showing a satisfied smirk.

They stepped outside, the former captives breathing in the clean air outdoors with relief.

"Moxica, what did you tell them?" Bartolomeo wanted to know. He was apparently not quite ready to take his regained freedom at face value yet.

"The truth of course," Moxica explained. "Who would lie to the royal council? I told them how we chased those mutineers up the cliff and how I went over the edge by accident." Who would have thought that at least part of the story established by Colón's lie for the priest's sake would ever come in handy again. He looked at the deposed ruler of the West Indies. "How you saved my life – twice – by bringing in Chanca when everybody else would have left me to die of my injuries and then by risking your own life in that storm."

"That's not—" Giacomo started to say, knowing fully well that that was not how it had happened.

Moxica cut him off. "That is all they needed to know. I told them that if it hadn't been for the three of you figuring out how we had to deal with the natives, everyone would have been caught in that freak storm unaware, how huge the casualties would have been. How you managed to get everyone to understand the importance of helping to construct the city, and how it started to prosper from the moment the colonists accepted that, too."

He stopped by the gates between the courtyard off the prison and the main road, waiting for them to be unlocked and opened to let them pass.

"I may also have mentioned Guevara's envy of you, and his unfortunate drinking habits and some of the things he has said about the queen when in his spirits. Oh, and I would not have been allowed to wear a sword in the council hall _or_ inside the prison, so I didn't bother to put one on to begin with."

They stepped out into the street and Moxica could almost feel the tension falling off of the three brothers when they were able to do so unhindered.

"My family owns a mansion not far from here," he said. "We'll go there, you can clean up, and see the Queen in time. I'm sorry I couldn't give you any advance notice – I'm making this up as I go along as well. There was no way of telling what the council would do after they’d heard my testimony."

"Thank you, Adrián," Colón said, reaching out to touch his arm. "I owe you more than you imagine. I'm so sorry I doubted—"

"That, too, can wait until later," Moxica interrupted him. "Focus on talking to the Queen for now."

As they rounded a corner, Moxica saw a hint of movement from the corner of his eye, mirrored on the other side, then shapes disengaging themselves from where they had waited motionlessly sheltered by parts of buildings and objects.

He had been expecting this, but not so soon. On the way back from the audience, maybe, but he really had thought that he had been fast enough to get the Colón brothers to the mansion before word of their release reached the wrong ears.

Apparently he had misjudged the determination of some of those men.

A man he recognized as being one of Guevara's recent associates stepped forward, sword drawn and ready, flanked by armed men on both sides.

"Do your boys know how to handle a fight?" Moxica whispered at Colón, who mutely passed the question on to Diego and Fernando. Moxica did not see if they nodded in response or not, since he kept his eyes fixed on the men in front of him. If they could count on the boys, they were six against seven, which would not have been the worst odds if it hadn't been for their distinct lack of weapons.

The man gestured. "You can leave, Moxica," he stated derisively. "I take no pleasure in executing a cripple, no matter what Guevara may say."

Moxica quickly glanced at the three older Colóns, all of whom were watching him intently. Their bodies were tense, ready to act in spite of their disadvantage and weakened condition after their imprisonment.

The black-clad noble bowed his head with a thin smile. "Thank you," he said. "I'm sure the cripples appreciate that." He took two steps forward, away from the others, putting himself within arm's reach of the man to the leader's left, looking for all the world as if he were preparing to walk away from the scene. The men were smirking scornfully, their swords held lazily in the sight of a group of defenseless opponents.

Without warning, Moxica whirled, lighting-fast, twisting the locking mechanism in the handle of his cane and pulling free a length of razor-sharp Toledo steel. He whipped it up and around, drawing a red line of spraying blood across the throat of the first man before his chosen target even had time to bring up his sword. His left shot out to grasp the man's weapon as he fell, wrenching it out of his grip and tossing it vaguely in the direction of his own companions in the same movement.

Suddenly much lighter on his feet than he had seemed before, he met the blade of Guevara's henchman with his bloodied sword and a bloodthirsty grin to match. "But I think I'll pass," he snarled at the man as he disengaged and swung again, trying to keep his opponent busy while looking for an opening. He heard the clash of steel on steel off to his side, followed by the sound of a sword slicing through flesh and a moan, but did not dare to look.

Finding the opening in the other man's cover that he had been looking for, he stepped in close, stabbing rather than cutting. "You should have listened to Guevara," he whispered as he let the dying man slide off of his sword and whirled to block a blade from biting into Giacomo – giving his brother the moment's distraction he needed to dispatch the man wielding it.

Cristóbal was holding his own well, one enemy already down by his feet, another kept busy with a series of quick strikes and cuts from a sword that looked almost petite in his large had.

The last of the group had turned tail and was running, but was suddenly stopped short by a dagger sprouting from his back.

Moxica looked around, and discovered young Fernando, who was still standing poised from the throw, at the same time as his father.

Caught between the scrutinizing stares of both men, the boy squirmed. "He could have brought more," he explained, biting his lip nervously.

"He certainly would," Moxica agreed. "You did well, Fernando."

Fernando managed a tentative smile at that, which grew more secure on his face when Colón came over and squeezed his shoulder lightly. "Very well done, my son."

"Does that mean I can come with you when you leave again?" Fernando asked, earning a chuckle from Colón.

"Let us see what the Queen says first," he suggested.

"Yes," Moxica agreed, looking around for the lower part of his cane as he was wiping the blade on a dead man's shirt so he could reassemble it. "Let's do just that. Forget about cleaning up – let her see you exactly like this. You look so nicely like the victims of a conspiracy to end your lives now." He gestured towards the blood stains on their clothes, the cuts across Cristóbal's arm and through Bartolomeo's eyebrow from when he had apparently not quite managed to duck in time.

Picking up both a sword to carry officially in case they walked into another ambush and his limp, he started towards the palace.

Fernando caught up with him quickly. "You are only pretending that limp, aren't you?" he accused him.

Moxica laughed. "No," he said. "I do have the limp. I'm merely exaggerating it. There's a difference. In any case, it gives me an extra edge in a situation like that the one we just encountered."

"Quite literally, it appears," Cristóbal agreed.

 

*

 

Queen Isabella had not been amused to hear what had happened to them. Against her advisors' wishes, she looked them over, taking in their tattered appearances and the visible proof of the recent swordfight, and called for servants to make them presentable.

They had had to abandon the blades they had taken from the ambushers when they had entered the palace – all but one, because no one had even remotely considered challenging Moxica's right to carry that cane. Of course things would likely have been different if they had known what was hidden inside it.

Washed and wearing fresh clothes, borrowed from some courtier or another, sprayed with scented water to mask the remaining prison stench clinging to hair and skin, they returned into the presence of the queen, the Colóns bowing low on one knee while Moxica made use of his noble birthright to remain on his feet, his bow executed with the accuracy of one who had been trained in such things from infancy. He was glad for the option. Kneeling, like running, was something that he would never do easily again

"Rise," the Queen commanded them, and Cristóbal climbed to his feet a fraction of a second before his brothers did.

"I have never believed that the tales that were told about you were true," the Queen said, looking Colón straight in the eye. "But the accusations were severe and they had to be investigated. I cannot tell you how glad I am that this matter has been cleared up." She looked at the others in turn, briefly, before returning her gaze to the man right in front of her. "Less glad of what happened to you when you were released. Hernando de Guevara will be dealt with, I assure you."

She gave a brief hand signal to a servant waiting off to the side. He approached, bearing a scroll decorated with the royal seal.

"Your titles and position have been restored," the Queen announced. "Your income reinstated, your possessions returned."

Columbus accepted the scroll, passing it on to his brother behind him. "Thank you, your majesty," he breathed.

"Do you have any further wish?" Isabella wanted to know. "If I can grant it, it shall be yours. I have heard how much you have done to make my city in the New World prosper and become a place all Castile can be proud of."

"Well," Colón started, and Moxica winced.

That was a purely rhetoric question, he wanted to tell him. She didn't actually mean for you to make a request! You say 'thank you, you've been very kind already' and take your leave.

"I have dreamed of reaching the continent all my life. I thought my dreams were grandiose, but reality is beyond my expectations. Far beyond. And now, I want to explore that land before I die."

Queen Isabella appeared half-amused and half- what? Pleased? As if he had just done exactly what she expected. "You would abandon the city of Isabel?" she asked. "You should know that word has reached me only this morning that Bobadilla is having problems there. Severe problems, in fact. It appears that he does not have your lucky hand with colonists or Indians."

"Oh no," Colón hurried to assure her. "I would return there, and make sure that everything is put in order first. But then…" he hesitated. "My brothers can run the city for a time. They have been my confidence all along and know what to pay attention to. I would not be gone forever."

"We will think about this," the Queen said. "Is there anything else?"

Moxica shot a warning look at Cristóbal, who either did not see it or chose to ignore it. "I would take my son, Fernando, with me when I leave," he said. "Diego, too, if he wishes. I realize that I am depriving you of two royal pages, but I believe it is past time for them to become familiar with the places they will someday rule."

To that she nodded, graciously.

"If you are organizing an expedition to the mainland…", the Queen began again, curiosity evident in her voice, "and your brothers are to remain in Isabel, then who will you take as your second in command? Your sons are certainly too young and it would not teach them how to govern a colony."

Colón smiled, answering with only a fraction of a second's hesitation. "I thought to ask the nobleman Adrián de Moxica," he said. "If he is interested."

Moxica, almost choking on his surprise, suddenly realized that somewhere along the way, Colón had learned to pronounce his name.


	11. EPILOGUE

Columbus reached out to offer Moxica a hand as they climbed higher. Accidentally separated from their men, the two had eventually decided to make their way back to the main camp along the most direct route possible guided by their compass, rather than trying to backtrack their steps through unfamiliar terrain and maybe getting even more lost than they already were.

Although, as Moxica kept pointing out, they were not technically lost. They knew exactly where they needed to get to rejoin their expedition, and they had at least another three days to do so, while the others were supposed to present the merchandise they had brought to the latest village of natives they had discovered.

The two of them had taken a smaller group of men out scouting because they had been feeling restless and because, when all was said and done, this particular village had a little more gold decorations, the metal of a little better quality, used just a little more casually than any of the others they had found. There was a chance that they might find a vein in the area after all.

They had underestimated the forests and mountains around here, spreading out to make their search more effective, and ending up being separated from the main group. The agreement was that anyone who got separated and could not rejoin the rest of the scouting party by nightfall would set out for the base camp the next morning.

This was what they were doing, but night was drawing near and the mountains would be dangerous to travel through in the dark.

"We should make camp," Columbus pointed out as they reached a hollow near a mountain stream, somewhat sheltered from the winds that blew up here. "Light a fire and bed down for the night. There's water here and we'll hardly find a safer spot in these mountains. If we set out early in the morning, we should be able to reach the village in time for lunch.

Moxica looked out over the sloping sides of the mountain. The view was grand, the sinking sun just beginning to paint the first red streaks into the sky. Soon, the horizon would be ablaze with a spectacular sunset.

"I hear a 'but' in your voice," he said.

"But," the other man sighed. "It's going to be cold up here. I just hate being cold all night."

That brought a laugh from Moxica. "If it helps any," he said, "we can share blankets and body warmth. Maybe that'll keep you warm enough."

He tossed down the pack that was holding the items each of them was carrying just in case they got lost. They had learned that from experience. Having servants take care of your luggage was comfortable, but if you got separated from the group even for one night and had nothing at all with you, you would have a very uncomfortable time out here. That in mind, they had taken to each keeping a smaller pack on their persons when venturing more than half a day's walking distance from the main camp.

The hares they had shot earlier came down next to his things. They would not go hungry tonight.

They cooked and ate in amicable silence. The last traces of red in the sky were giving way to blackness by the time they finished their meal.

Columbus spread out his blanket in the sheltered spot beneath a slightly overhanging rock face and settled down, ready to wrap himself in it and hope to get some sleep in spite of the temperature.

A moment later, Moxica was standing by him.

"Move over, old man," he said. "Let's see if I can keep you warm."

The other man obediently rolled onto his side, his back against the rock. "You should stop calling me that. I only have two years on you," he pointed out.

Moxica shrugged against the darkness. "Maybe, but you look at least a decade my senior."

"It's the hair," Columbus muttered. It was lightening rapidly, turning more white than grey, while Moxica's still retained the same glossy blackness that it had had the first time he had set eyes on the man.

Moxica chuckled as he arranged himself next to Columbus, spreading the second blanket over both of them. "Probably," he allowed.

Maybe the idea hadn't been that great after all, however. Trying to forget how very close they were right now, Moxica closed his eyes and deliberately turned his mind to anything but the tantalizing proximity of Cristóbal Colón – not an easy feat in his current position, where he could feel the warmth radiating out from the other man, hear his breath and smell the salty tang of the leather he wore.

Mere minutes later, Colón jerked up. "Not a good idea," he choked out, looking down at his companion, who in turn opened his eyes to inquire:

"Why? It's warm."

"Some things," Colón said, "some things quite simply are not appropriate." Such as the reaction of his body to Moxica that he had thought conquered as tolerance turned into friendship between them.

With the strangest look on his face, Moxica sat up, still turned to face him, trying to decide if the other man's face looked decidedly flushed in spite of the darkness.

"You know that I have travelled to the East before I came to the New World with you for the first time," he said slowly, weighing every word. "Customs are different there. Things that are unthinkable in Spain are perfectly appropriate there. Certain kinds of companionship among men being one of them. If we sailed West until we hit the East, we are at the very Eastern edge of the East now, aren't we?"

He watched Colón carefully, trying to gauge his reaction even though the darkness made it hard to pick out features. Why couldn't the moon be just a little fuller tonight, the sky a little clearer?

"Nothing needs to be inappropriate if you don't want it to be," he went on. He gave him a moment to consider, then added: "Do you want it to be appropriate?"

Columbus took a deep breath, drawing out the answer for a moment longer. Moxica couldn't mean…

"Yes," he breathed, so low that at first he didn't think Moxica would even be able to hear him. Maybe he wouldn't and they would just turn around and go to sleep.

A hand tugged at his vest, pulling him back down against the other man. Moxica had shrugged out of his jacket and was now threading his hand beneath Columbus' shirt.

Probing fingers brought a shuddering sigh from him as he reached out to touch and feel the lean, wiry body next to his. Whatever was going to happen tonight, it would be okay as long as it remained a secret between them. Moxica was right. They were in the very East of the East. Anything could be appropriate here if they declared it so.

*

Columbus woke to a new morning, utterly content and strangely warm.

Not so strange anymore once he opened his eyes and realized that the weight against his chest was Moxica's head nestled against him, his lush black hair fanning out around it like a halo of dark silk.

He raised a hand to it, running his fingers through strands like fine-spun threads waiting to be used by a master weaver. The long locks flowed through his hands, posing no resistance at all, not a single tangle impairing his way through them as he finger-combed them.

Moxica lazily opened his eyes, smiling up at him.

"You have no idea how long I'd been waiting for this," Columbus muttered, the confession feeling entirely right at that moment. "No idea at all."

"Maybe I do." The other man's smile broadened as he traced patterns on Columbus' exposed body with the tip of a finger.

"I had no idea you could even do that," the Viceroy of the West Indies admitted, drawing a small laugh from Moxica.

"Are you laughing at me?"

With a shake of his head, Moxica moved a little to get a better view of Columbus' face. "No. Never. But I am glad to have been of service to broaden your… education in this matter."

Now they were both laughing.

"We should get up, dressed and out of here," Columbus said after another few moments. "It'd be just our luck if the others got impatient and came looking for us. I don't think most of the men would understand about being in the very East of the East…"

"They might surprise you again," Moxica said. "How many men in Isabel do you think would prefer company like this to that of a native woman?"

He had no answer to that. Before tonight he would have thought none. Now he was not so sure.

"Nevertheless," Moxica went on, "You are right. We should be on our way." He started to push himself up from the ground, stopped by a large hand on his arm. "What is it? Changed your mind?"

There was a minute headshake, as if Columbus was afraid that whatever he had set his eyes on over Moxica's shoulder would disappear the moment he looked elsewhere. "No." He pointed. "There."

Turning, the Spaniard tried to make out what his companion was pointing at.

Sun reflected off a bright gleam in the rock face on the other side of the stream that had provided their water.

Moxica scrambled to his feet, pulling on breeches as he went and stuffing his feet into boots. His shirt went on as he hurried over, just in time to have his hands free again to steady himself on the wet rocks as he climbed down into the bed of the stream and up on the other side.

He ran his hand up and down the gleaming vein in the rock, almost invisible in the falling dusk the day before, but unmistakable in the bright morning light.

Columbus came up the slope after him, his shirt askew, his leather vest hanging open.

"You have found gold, my friend," he announced when the other man reached him. "Congratulations."

Bending, he reached out for a small piece that apparently had been washed from the mountain at some point, gave it a brief examination and pocketed it.

Noticing Columbus' raised eyebrows, he beamed at him innocently. "What? I need this. And on the same note, you better do up your vest properly." He vaguely remembered linen tearing under his fingers as he was groping for the hooks. "Because I think I owe you another shirt."

  
  
Illustration by Rebekah


End file.
